


Of Espionage and Exceptions

by SilverRenaissance



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Independent Harry Potter, Inspired by CHERUB, Powerful Harry Potter, Ravenclaw Harry Potter, Spy Harry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-16
Updated: 2020-09-30
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:15:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 38,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26501983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilverRenaissance/pseuds/SilverRenaissance
Summary: 1981. The most famous baby of the wizarding world is left on two doorsteps: the Dursleys', then an orphanage's. 1985. Harry Potter becomes one of the youngest-ever recruits to a top-secret child spy program. 1991. The Boy Who Lived arrives at Hogwarts with big goals and the means to achieve them. Because the adults never suspect the kids are spying on them.
Comments: 11
Kudos: 110





	1. Prologue: Snapshots

**Author's Note:**

> The first eight chapters have already been posted on ff.net, but I'm trying out posting on here. My current plan is to post a new chapter every other day until we're up to date, and then... well, we'll see how this goes!
> 
> You don't need to have read CHERUB to read this story; I'm not using any of the characters (partially because I haven't read the books in a while and I don't think I could portray them accurately), and I'll give a brief description of the organization at the end of this chapter.

**Disclaimer: Harry Potter, CHERUB, and associated universes belong to J.K. Rowling and Robert Muchamore, respectively, and not me.**

* * *

**Prologue: Snapshots**

_19 October 1985  
_ _New Haven Orphan Home_

For the hundredth time, Eliza Morgan - presently Eliza Fleming - wondered _why_ she'd thought pranking Reynold Cooper in the dining hall in front of the entire campus had been a good idea.

She supposed it was because she hadn't thought she would get caught.

In hindsight, perhaps she should have expected it. After all, she was, apparently, the only one on campus who even remotely disliked Reynold - something she couldn't comprehend; how could _anyone_ stand him? - not to mention, she'd only managed to disable the primary cameras, and not the secondary cameras (that _no one_ knew existed… but maybe that was the point). But she _hadn't_ expected it, and she'd done it. The prank had _worked_ , of course, but she'd gotten caught.

Her handler, and the mission controllers, had been particularly sadistic for her punishment (or, perhaps, had realized that they were in particular need of new agents), and had decided that, given her record - something that _wasn't_ her fault! - she needed to taught that being a CHERUB agent wasn't all fun and games.

Which meant that, now, she was stuck at the children's home, New Haven Orphan Home - a name that was definitely a misnomer - scouting for kids who might make good CHERUB agents.

Everyone hated recruitment missions, and Eliza was no exception. The missions weren't even particularly dangerous. They were just so _boring_.

And Eliza could already tell that this wouldn't be a quick, easy mission. Literally _none_ of the orphans were particularly intelligent, much less fit the other CHERUB criteria. _No one_ caught her attention. The eight- and nine-year-olds were horribly immature, the ten-, eleven-, and twelve-year-olds were bullies or sheep, and the older teens were criminals. Fine, Eliza was overgeneralizing slightly, but it was _only_ slightly. _No one_ , at New Haven Orphan Home, was CHERUB-material.

But she couldn't go home until she found someone who was, or until three months were over, and she had _no_ intention of staying that long.

Grumbling quietly to herself, Eliza pulled out her textbooks to start on her homework, spreading her things across a desk in the library she'd commandeered for her own - her roommate tended to throw _parties_ with her friends, in their shared dorm. The work was almost pathetically easy, compared to regular CHERUB coursework, but she was careful not to do _too_ well on the assignment, thus attracting too much attention.

Eliza scanned the room periodically, automatically, keeping tabs on each orphan in the library of the children's home. Libraries tended to reveal the more intelligent children, with CHERUB-potential, and it was a sign of New Haven's poor orphan quality, that the library was nearly empty, outside of a group of older teens who were obviously there as a cover to plan something (criminal), a pudgy nine-year-old who Eliza had already dismissed as having no practical intelligence (though she was considerably book-smart), a collection of seven-year-olds who were more interested in whispering and giggling in some sort of game of their own devising, and a five-year-old who was reading a book nearly the size of his body.

She sighed again, turning her attention back to her schoolwork, before freezing. What had that last part been, again? A five-year-old who was reading a book nearly the size of his body… Eliza covertly glanced at the tiny orphan again. He looked more like a three-year-old than a five-year-old, with his petite stature, messy black hair, oversized glasses that covered bright green eyes, and strange childish beauty, but Eliza was certain that he was five - she'd managed to memorize the list of children the orphanage matron had inadvertently showed her, the day Eliza had arrived at New Haven. She hadn't paid attention to any of the children younger than eight, the standard minimum recruiting age… but perhaps she should have. It wasn't only the fact that this raven-haired child was reading _Great Expectations_ , if Eliza had gotten the title right, at age five; there was something oddly compelling about the boy.

His name was Harry Potter, Eliza remembered. She would keep an eye on him, if only because it would make her stay at New Haven a little less boring.

-oOo-

_October 1985  
_ _New Haven Orphan Home_

Harry Potter, Eliza soon realized, was nothing like the other children. She was surprised she hadn't noticed before. After discreetly asking around, she'd found a substantial source of information in Margaret Greyson, one of the matron's assistants, who had a sweet spot for the child. Apparently, the boy had appeared at the doorstep of New Haven four years ago, wrapped in a blanket with the words _Harry Potter_ embroidered into it, a strangely-shaped scar on his forehead. Further inquiry had turned up empty; it seemed that, somehow, there was no record of a Harry Potter ever existing.

The boy had, apparently, always been a quiet child, rarely crying or doing anything to attract attention to himself. He tended to keep to himself, teaching himself to read while the other children played together. The other children left him alone, too, as if they'd forgotten he existed. He was incredibly polite and well-mannered, despite his isolation, too, and Margaret confided that she'd always liked him, even before a certain _incident_ , scarcely a month prior to Eliza's arrival.

From what Eliza could tell, the _incident_ had been the event from which Harry Potter had had his five minutes of glory.

A new boy, seven years old, by the name of Logan Walsh, had arrived at New Haven, two months ago, and promptly established his empire among the younger orphans, drawing towards him those attracted to power, and terrorizing the others into obedience. He left the older children alone, who echoed the sentiment, unwilling and uninterested in the qualms of the younger. There had been no evidence, of course, but it was clear that Logan was bullying the younger children; scraped knees, bruises, and lost toys became common in the population. And then, Logan had noticed Harry Potter.

Those present at the confrontation had refused to speak of it, to any adult, but somehow, Harry Potter, Logan, and all Logan's friends had emerged unscathed, the former triumphantly innocent, and the latter terrified, for days complaining quietly of invisible pains. Logan had immediately ceased all bullying, and the children regarded Harry Potter as their hero, swarming the boy… for about a week. Afterwards, the boy had seemed to grow sick of the attention (or, the disruption to his reading), and the younger orphans had seemed to forget about his existence once again.

But that, Eliza knew, only showed that Harry Potter was perfect CHERUB-material. He was intelligent, and remarkably so; he could defend himself against a group of boys two years his senior, without getting caught; he was charismatic and charming to adults; he simply looked innocent, too innocent to be involved in anything nefarious; and he cared enough to help those who couldn't fend for themselves.

The only problem was, of course, that he was five years old.

CHERUB would just have to make an exception for him, Eliza decided. Because they, honestly, couldn't afford _not_ to have Harry Potter.

-oOo-

_30 December 1990  
_ _CHERUB Compound of Carpathian Mountains_

Jasper Hill, who'd been Jasper Stevens scarcely three months, and yet a lifetime, ago, knew he'd been incredibly lucky when he'd been partnered with Harry Greyson for basic training.

The twelve-year-old may not have been the brightest on campus, but he was smart enough to have been recruited, after all, and smart enough to know that he would have failed, had his partner _not_ been Harry.

And sometimes, he wondered if the younger boy was even human.

They were on the final stretch of basic training, now, the last of the final three days that would make or break them - as though the past ninety-seven days hadn't done so already. Jasper panted as they hiked up the mountain, exhausted, though his endurance was much improved compared to his pre-CHERUB days. He glanced sidelong at his partner, then immediately regretted it. Harry didn't even look winded, despite his smaller size while carrying just as much supplies as Jasper.

"How… much… longer?" Jasper managed between breaths.

"About two kilometers," Harry replied, his voice calm and smooth as always. "Provided nothing else comes up." Jasper closed his eyes and groaned at the thought. Of course, something would come up. The training instructors were just sadistic like that.

Think of the grey shirt, Jasper told himself. Two more kilometers, and whatever else the instructors threw at him, and then, he'd have his shirt. He'd be an active agent. Two more kilometers.

One more kilometer.

Half a kilometer.

Jasper sped up, as he saw a cave at the peak - their destination. _So close_ -

"Jasper." Harry's voice pulled him out of his thoughts, and that his partner's tone contained the slightest edge of worry was enough for Jasper to tense. Something was wrong, and he'd learned to trust Harry's instincts. He turned to face the other boy- "Duck."

Jasper dropped to the ground immediately, just as something exploded up ahead. Instinctively, he curled into a ball, bracing himself for the impact… but nothing happened. Cautiously, Jasper opened his eyes, then immediately wondered if he'd been knocked unconscious by the explosion. Because there was no way the scene around him was real.

Harry, too, lay on the ground, facedown and curled into a ball, though his arms were spread out as though pushing something away. Debris filled their surroundings… but the ground was completely _clear_ for several meters around the two boys.

"H-Harry?" Jasper asked shakily. His partner didn't respond, and he panicked. "Harry!" He ran towards the other boy, turning him onto his back and checking for a pulse. "Ha-"

"Jasper. I'm fine." Harry's voice was quiet, but steady, as the younger boy pushed himself wearily to his knees, then standing.

"You sure-"

"I'm fine," Harry repeated, then gestured towards the cave, just ahead. "Let's get our grey shirts." He began to walk, again, dodging gracefully around the pieces of rock around them.

Jasper grinned, and jogged slightly to catch up, his exhaustion forgotten. "Let's."

-oOo-

_4 May 1991  
_ _Scarlet Wolves' Warehouse of London_

Reynold Cooper - currently Reynold Lane - pressed a kiss to his girlfriend's lips, an action that quickly progressed into a full-on snog. When Eliza finally pulled away, Reynold realized that the third member of their mission, Eliza's 'younger brother' Harry 'Miller', had been watching them, emerald-green eyes glinting strangely in the darkness.

"That's really creepy, kid," Reynold complained, as Eliza gave a laugh.

"Well, that's Harry." Eliza knew Harry better than most - she'd been the one to recruit him, five years ago, after all, and had suggested him as the third agent for their mission, despite his being fresh out of basic training, and their mission's high-risk classification. He was a good kid, Eliza had argued, and he had, given his early recruitment, effectively five years of training. And Harry had more than proved himself, managing to get into their primary target's home to plant bugs and copy files, something Reynold and Eliza, even, hadn't been able to do.

"True," Reynold agreed. "I'll see you later, then, Harry and El-"

He cut off abruptly, at Harry's sudden gesture. He'd learned to trust their youngest member's instincts, in the five months their mission had progressed, even if he, himself, hadn't detected anything amiss.

"Someone's here," Harry told them, his voice barely audible. "Surrounding the warehouse."

"The Reapers?" Eliza asked. Harry nodded, and Reynold cursed internally. It was just their luck, wasn't it, that the rival gang to the one they'd been tasked with taking down, the Scarlet Wolves, would come to raid the warehouse the day before the police raid was to occur? They would still have evidence against the Scarlet Wolves they'd infiltrated, even if the warehouse was empty, though…

"Don't engage. Let's get out-"

Harry interrupted him, though. "Rey-"

"Ah, ah, ah," another voice said mockingly. This time, Reynold did curse aloud. "Such naughty language," continued one of the Scarlet Wolves' top enforcers, Emmanuel 'Princess' Suttle. "But you, and your girl and your baby-doll brother, are in this, win or lose, live or die. You made a pledge, after all. We all did." How many Wolves were out there? From the looks of it, hidden in the shadows around the warehouse, the whole gang was there.

"How nice of you to join us, Hellings," Emmanuel continued, raising his voice. The shadows that were the Reapers shifted nervously at the identification. "Come down from your high throne to do the dirty work with the rest of us, eh?"

"Your pretty words won't be enough this time, _Princess_ ," the gruff voice of a Reaper taunted. "You have something that doesn't belong to you, and we're here to take it back."

"I'm glad you find me attractive, Helpings, but I'm afraid you're not quite my type," Emmanuel teased. "And you'll find that you're mistaken; this warehouse, and all its contents, to belong to us. After all, finders keepers."

"Then I'm sure you won't mind if - when - we take it back from you. We seem to have _found_ the stash, after all."

"By all means, take the stash - if you _can_ , that is," Emmanuel told him, the smile still prominent on his lips. He seemed unworried about the possibility of losing... Was there something else at play? Reynold glanced to Harry worriedly. If anyone would know, it would be him. Catching the boy's bright emerald eyes, Reynold tilted his head significantly to the contents of the warehouse. Could they... Had they been moved?

_Gone_ , Harry mouthed, after a moments consideration. His expression remained neutral, angelic in its innocence and beauty, but Reynold could see the scolding Harry was giving himself, in the younger boy's eyes. Harry _never_ let himself make any mistake, and Reynold knew that the boy considered his belated realization that the warehouse was empty, as a failure.

_Not your fault_ , Eliza, who no doubt had been thinking along the same lines as Reynold, mouthed in turn. Harry turned to stare disbelievingly at her. She gestured first at herself, and then at Reynold - they hadn't realized, after all. But he knew Harry wouldn't see it that way.

Sometimes, it was hard to believe the boy was only ten; that was, until Reynold actually _looked_ at Harry.

"Is that a _challenge_ , Princess?" Hellings was asking, his voice dangerous, the Reapers around him shifting restlessly.

Emmanuel smiled, the taunt apparent. "A challenge? I'd say… _yes_." And suddenly, the night was filled with gunfire.

"Stay _down_ Harry, Eliza," Reynold ordered urgently, falling swiftly to the ground, himself, struggling to make himself heard over the shooting. "Eliza, you've contacted-?"

"Yes," his girlfriend responded, her body angled protectively towards Harry. "They're on their way. Fifteen minutes."

"Interesting method of fighting, _Lane_ ," another voice drawled. Reynold glared furiously at Jarrod Sand, a Scarlet Wolf who'd taken his quick rise through the gang personally. "I would have thought you'd be in the thick of things. You don't even have your gun out, do you? What would _Emmanuel_ say?"

"You're not fighting, either, _Sand_ ," Eliza retorted fiercely. Jarrod grinned sadistically, raising the handgun already in his hand and pointing it at Reynold's chest. Immediately, there were three other guns directed at him - Reynold's, Eliza's, and Harry's.

"Go ahead," Reynold dared quietly. "Shoot me, and see what happens to _you_."

Jarrod glared at them, but all the same, took a menacing step towards them. "I wonder," he said, nearly whispering, "if you would say the same - _now_." The gun abruptly turned, pointing at _Harry_.

"Sand…" Reynold began dangerously.

Jarrod took another step towards them, towards Harry.

"Don't you _dare_ -" Eliza warned.

Another step- but then something had him stumbling back, as though he'd been pushed, eyes wide. And then, suddenly, he was falling, his screams adding to the cacophony around.

There was blood flowing out of a wound at his chest.

"L-L-Lane… M-Miller… _p-p-please_ …" Jarrod wheezed, genuine terror in his expression. He screamed again, desperate.

"Eliza-" Reynold began, but it was too late. It was something he both loved and hated about his girlfriend: her inability to _not_ help. She was already at Jarrod's side, her first-aid kit out and on the floor. Spitting out another curse word, Reynold dashed to her side, out and exposed in the open, shielding her from the conflict with his body.

" _Stay_ there, Harry," he ordered, seeing the younger boy about to come out, as well. Harry glared, but obeyed, stay crouched in the shadows. "Eliza, we need to move him. It's too exposed, here."

She nodded, her eyes still on the wound and her hands flying. "You take his legs, I'll take his- AH!" She crumpled like a puppet whose strings had been cut, to the ground besides Jarrod.

"ELIZA!" Reynold shouted, crouching beside her, turning to lay her body out, searching for the wound. "Eliza, where-"

"S-shoulder," she gasped, her teeth clenched so as not to cry out. "R-Reynold!" Her eyes were fixed at a point to Reynold's right. "Reynold, b-behind-" He turned, but-

He screamed as a sudden, flaring pain erupted in his thigh. A figure that seemed impossibly tall pushed him to the ground, looming over him, a gun pointed directly at his forehead. "Goodbye, little Wolf," a deep voice murmured. Reynold closed his eyes.

"Get _away_ from him," another voice added, its pitch slightly higher than normal, but its tone steady. Harry.

"And what are you going to do about it, little boy?" the Reaper asked, amused. "Are you even out of your nappies?" he taunted.

"Get away, or I'll shoot," Harry warned.

The man snorted. "Sure you will, kid."

"You have three seconds. Three."

"I'm surprised you can even hold the gun up," the man mocked.

"Two."

"You haven't the guts to shoot."

"One."

The man didn't move. Harry pulled the trigger. The bullet struck the man's chest, a perfect kill shot, and the Reaper collapsed onto Reynold. The weight, coupled with the insistent pain in his thigh, was too much.

Reynold blacked out. The last thing he saw was Harry's emerald-green eyes, staring, horrified and unseeing, at the body that lay atop him. The man Harry had killed.

Poor kid.

-oOo-

_24 July 1991  
_ _CHERUB Headquarters_

Early in the morning, a brown-flecked barn owl dropped an envelope into the rarely-used post receptacle by the main gates of the CHERUB campus, resting for several minutes before beginning on its long journey back to the highlands of Scotland. Several hours later, the letter was fished out by a nine-year-old who was two months away from beginning basic training. She read the address, frowning slightly. She didn't know any _Mr. H. Potter_ , throughout the organization, and she was fairly certain she knew everyone in CHERUB. Shrugging to herself, the girl tossed the letter into the nearest trash can. It had probably been sent to the wrong address, and she doubted anyone would miss it.


	2. The School of Magic

**Disclaimer: Harry Potter, CHERUB, and associated universes belong to J.K. Rowling and Robert Muchamore, respectively, and not me.**

* * *

**Chapter 1: The School of Magic**

_30 July 1991  
_ _CHERUB Headquarters  
_ _1900 Hours_

"Harry, could you come with me, please?" Harry glanced towards the door, mildly surprised that the chairwoman of CHERUB, Jenna McAfferty, herself, had come to his room.

"Trouble in paradise?" another voice chimed in. Suriyawong Singharattanapan, a Thai boy who'd joined CHERUB at age six, with his older brother, and who'd clung, despite Harry's efforts otherwise, to Harry throughout the years, smirked playfully. "Never thought I'd see the day, when Harry Greyson was called to the chairwoman's office."

"He's not in trouble," Jenna told them neutrally, as Harry stood and moved towards the door.

Suriyawong rolled his eyes at Harry, grinning conspiratorially. "Perfectionist. Fine, fine! I'm going!" he added, seeing Harry about to respond. He may have found it to be less trouble to simply let Suriyawong work in his room, but that courtesy only extended so long as Harry, too, was present. He didn't trust Suriyawong enough to - or, perhaps, simply knew the other boy well enough not to - leave him alone in his room. Suriyawong had a reputation as the king of pranksters for a reason. "Not like I'd stay, anyway," the boy grumbled. "Your room's only worth it when you're here."

"So you've said," Harry returned.

"What can I say? You're a genius, mate."

Harry, privately, disagreed. He was smart, of course, and perhaps a little brighter and more resourceful than the average CHERUB agent, but a lot of his success had come down to the strange things that tended to happen around him. It was incredibly lucky, and it had done wonders to his reputation, but he disliked relying on things he couldn't control. And, though, through practice, he'd gained some semblance of control over the happenings, there were times when he didn't think that made him a _genius_.

Suriyawong slid past them to his own room, proving that he wasn't _entirely_ oblivious through one last, bemused, glance at Jenna, before disappearing up the stairs.

"Come," Jenna issued, nodding to the stairs down. Harry followed her to the administration building, where her office was, wondering all the while about her summoning - both _why_ she was summoning him, when she customarily only handled disciplinary matters, and why _she_ was summoning him, since she was the chairwoman of CHERUB. She seemed less _assertive_ , too, her gaze darting slightly about, her words containing an edge of hesitation. It made no sense, but it was almost as though she was afraid of Harry...

Or, afraid of his reaction.

Emerald eyes widened as Harry realized why she'd called him. _No_ , it was _impossible_... But it _fit_. Jenna's attitude, that she'd come herself, that he wasn't in _trouble_ , per say...

His previous record... The strange things that happened to him, that, it seemed, had gotten too strange for _their_ liking...

Harry noticed that he'd been lagging behind, slowing in his realization, and hurried to catch up to the chairwoman again. He would _not_ react badly, he vowed to himself. He was better than that.

Even if they didn't think he was good enough for CHERUB... Even if he _abhored_ even the _idea_ of being expelled...

Jenna stopped, _outside_ her door, for whatever reason, and turned to look at Harry. The scene was almost as though she were preparing him to meet someone _higher_ than her, but that was impossible. The chairwoman was one of the highest positions that knew of CHERUB's existence. Unless… this _wasn't_ to do with his expulsion from the organization?

"Is something the matter, Miss?" Harry asked, deciding to feign ignorance about his revelation. Just _in case_ it was wrong.

The chairwoman _closed her eyes_ for a moment, visibly - to Harry, at least - taking a steadying breath, before meeting his gaze. "There's someone here to meet you, Harry." He couldn't help the slight lift of his eyebrows. Interesting. Certainly not what he'd been expecting. "Some of what she's going to say will sound … ridiculous, impossible, like a joke. But from what I can tell, all of it is true. She can prove it."

Harry waited for her to expand, as he had no doubt she would. She'd tell him everything she could, in her urge to _prepare_ him. He mulled over what she had told him. Someone here to see him... Someone to do with his family? That was a _complicated_ subject for Harry; on the one hand, like any orphan, he was immensely curious about his family, having been abandoned on the doorstep of an orphanage, ten years ago. On the other hand, though, having a family was inconvenient, for a CHERUB agent, especially if that family found you, and cared enough to keep track of you. And he did _not_ care to be forced to leave CHERUB, through expulsion or other means.

There was a long pause, before Jenna did, indeed, continue. "The world, it seems, is much more complicated than we know." Before Harry could puzzle over her words, though, she reached over and opened the door, then gestured for him to enter.

Not ladies first, then. CHERUB had never been much for chivalry, anyway.

Harry entered the room, his stance carefully casual, his guard raised. Immediately, his attention was drawn to the woman who stood by Jenna's desk, the only aspect of the office out-of-place, and no doubt the visitor here to see Harry. Or, she was one of the only aspects out of place; for whatever reason, a gun lay, the safety off, on the desk.

The woman, herself, looked to be in her sixties, with dark hair tied into a tight bun and a stern expression. She wore a dark green coat over black clothes, clothes that were perfectly normal, and yet, somehow, seemed _strange_ on her. Most peculiarly, she held, what seemed to be, a stick, in her right hand, gripped casually, yet as though it were a weapon.

Was this what had prompted Jenna to draw her gun? Harry couldn't see how a stick could be threatening, unless to poke someone's eye out? He supposed that was possible; CHERUB agents were taught that anything and everything could be used dangerously, and that looks could be deceiving. People had certainly underestimated him because of his appearance, before.

The visitor, too, seemed to be assessing Harry, but upon realizing what she had been doing, she spoke. "Mr. Potter," she greeted, slight excitement and approval in her tone.

"Greyson," Harry corrected. It was interesting, that she knew his former surname; that would seem to support his family theory.

He only hoped…

"Greyson?" the woman asked, confused.

"My name; I was Harry Potter, but that was six years ago. I'm Harry Greyson, now." He wondered if he was allowed to say that, but a glance at Jenna, and the fact that she hadn't stopped him, told him that he, likely, was.

Though, if this woman didn't know about his change in name, then did that make her unaffiliated with CHERUB? He wondered what she _did_ know. And, for that matter, who she was.

"Harry, this is Professor McGonagall," Jenna introduced. A _professor_ , was she? Of what? Of some university? Though, it would still be seven years until Harry retired from CHERUB. Unless… she was some sort of researcher?

Some sort of _psychologist_?

"Yes. I am a professor at a special school, Mr. P- Greyson," Professor McGonagall corrected. So she made an effort to be polite… but what was this _special school_? Suddenly, Harry's expulsion theory was seeming a lot more likely. They weren't sending him _away_ , were they? "The school is called Hogwarts," the woman continued, and Harry barely held in an incredulous laugh. What a strange, and unattractive, name. "You see, Mr. Greyson, Hogwarts is a school of magic. And you are a wizard."

Harry stared.

_What_ had she said? A school of _magic_? And he, a _wizard_? He dismissed his psychologist theory; unless this was some sort of elaborate ploy - or joke - this woman was crazier than he was. Because _magic wasn't real_. It couldn't be real.

And yet…

Jenna had all but confirmed it. Everything McGonagall said could be proven, the chairwoman had told him, and Jenna wasn't the type to take proof lightly. And it would certainly explain her strange attitude; the discovery that _magic_ was real could certainly throw the normally imperturbable chairwoman off. Not to mention, there was the strange things that happened around Harry, the strange things he could do. There were the countless incidents that led up to Logan Walsh, when he was five; his Spanish teacher's confusion that one time he'd forgotten to do his homework, when he was seven; everything that had happened during basic training, including the time he'd _shielded_ himself and Jasper from the explosion; his first (and only) mission…

The fact that he had some control over the strange occurrences… If it was some sort of magical ability, it _did_ make sense.

Still… "Prove it," he requested politely.

McGonagall nodded, as though she'd been expecting the request. She raised the stick - a _wand_? - in her hand, inciting, to Harry's interest, an almost imperceptible flinch on Jenna's part, and gave it a flick. An envelope rose from its position on the desk, flying towards Harry, who caught it instinctively, emerald eyes wide. Another twitch transformed a stack of papers into an ornate jewelry box, and back.

Yes. That, it seemed, was magic. Harry couldn't help the slight smile that sprung at his lips, because _magic_ was _real_. _He_ could do _magic_.

"It's for you," McGonagall said, nodding towards the letter in his hand, which Harry realized he'd been staring blankly at. He nodded slightly at the professor in acknowledgement, before his eyes flickered back to the envelope, to the words elegantly written in a strange, dark green ink.

_Mr. H. Potter  
_ _Room 413  
_ _Main Building  
_ _CHERUB Campus_

The next two lines were blacked out. Harry's lips twitched. Jenna had done that, no doubt, since no one was allowed to know where CHERUB headquarters were. Though, McGonagall had probably already seen the location, and there was no way Jenna could make the professor forget _that_. She'd probably made the professor sign some sort of non-disclosure contract.

Though… could magic erase memories? And, now that Harry thought of it, did wizards even follow the same laws as normal people? Would such a contract be binding, for the professor? Were there magical contracts, then?

Could McGonagall have been about to use magic on Jenna, earlier? Could that be why Jenna's gun was out? Perhaps, since non-magical people, it seemed, weren't to know of the existence of magic, the professor had been about to make Jenna forget. Though that would imply that magic _could_ erase memories - could that have been what he'd done to his Spanish teacher? Then, what were the limitations of what magic could do? Could it, for example, create life, or bring back the dead? How, for that matter, did magic work? Or did it completely defy the non-magical laws of science, of physics?

Setting aside the questions and thoughts for later, he flipped the letter over, examining the strange purple seal of a lion, a badger, an eagle, and a snake, around the letter _H_ , before opening the envelope neatly.

HOGWARTS SCHOOL _of_ WITCHCRAFT _and_ WIZARDRY

_Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore_

_(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)_

Harry wondered what all the titles meant. 'Mugwump' didn't sound like a word; it was eccentric, but then again, so was 'Hogwarts'. Professor McGonagall had said that he was a wizard; what was the difference, then, between a wizard and a warlock? Was she a witch, since the school was of witchcraft and wizardry; was the difference simply gender-based? Were 'Order of Merlin' and 'First Class' two separate titles? It was nice to note that wizards, it seemed, were international, but was the wizarding government international? How many wizards, and witches, were there in the world, anyway?

He read on:

_Dear Mr. Potter,_

_We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment._

_Term begins on September 1. We await your owl by no later than July 31._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Minerva McGonagall,_

_Deputy Headmistress_

The professor who stood before him now, and who, it seemed, was waiting for an answer. He supposed he wouldn't need to send an owl - magical communication? - to send his response.

At first thought, his answer was simple - yet, Harry hesitated. He did _not_ want to leave CHERUB, not after he'd waited and trained for five years to qualify for basic training, not after he'd gone on exactly _one_ mission, not when there was still _so much_ he could do, with CHERUB, in the next seven years. But, perhaps…

"Tell me about the magical world," he requested. Perhaps more information would help him make his decision. McGonagall nodded again, unsurprised. Did that mean that she regularly encountered students like himself, ones who knew nothing of the magical world? Could two non-magical people give birth to a wizard or witch?

"Of course. I'll tell you a bit about Hogwarts, first?" Harry nodded. "Hogwarts is a school of magic, for students aged eleven through eighteen; there are seven years of schooling. Instruction is split into subjects. I teach Transfiguration, but there is also Charms, Potions, Herbology, Astronomy, and Defense Against the Dark Arts." Interesting. So there were 'Dark Arts', whatever that encompassed. Memory spells? Killing spells? "Beginning in third year, electives may also be chosen, out of Ancient Runes, Arithmancy, Care for Magical Creatures, Muggle Studies, and Divination." McGonagall said the last with an air of distaste, though Harry couldn't see what was so distasteful about predicting the future. And, what were 'Muggles'? "Students are also split into one of four Houses: Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin, each of which contributes a symbol to the Hogwarts crest." She nodded to the letter Harry held - the purple seal on the envelope. And a House system, that was interesting.

"The wizarding world, itself, is in some ways very similar to the Muggle world - Muggles are non-magical people," McGonagall added. Did the headmaster Albus Dumbledore's 'Mugwump' title have something to do with Muggles, then? "We have a government, the Ministry of Magic, that is split into Departments, and that is led by the Minister for Magic, presently Cornelius Fudge. We have our own society, with our own towns, alleys, stores, sports, and more."

"And your intelligence system?" Harry asked. Did they, by any chance, have an equivalent to CHERUB? If not, well, could he establish one? CHERUB was incredibly useful, anyhow.

"Sorry?" For whatever reason, McGonagall seemed not to know what he was talking about.

"Your intelligence system," he repeated. Her gaze remained blank. "Your spy system?"

"Ah, that. The Ministry doesn't have one." Harry's eyes widened reflexively. They _what_? How could they not have an intelligence system? "I suppose the closest equivalent would be our Aurors - Dark wizard catchers." There it was again, the idea of Dark magic, whatever that was. Though, if these Aurors were there specifically to 'catch' Dark wizards, then perhaps Dark magic was illegal, magic used to harm. "They're like Muggle police and soldiers." But neither of those were the same as spies.

And that, Harry realized, was a _brilliant_ opportunity, even more so than his, possibly, establishing a CHERUB-equivalent in the magical world. A complete _lack_ of an intelligence system, which would no doubt be important, as non-magical - _Muggle_ \- espionage agencies were, to apprehend criminals and to save lives. At CHERUB, he would make a difference, but he was only a single agent. In the magical world, it seemed, there was so much _more_ he could do.

McGonagall had been hesitating, but spoke again. "And, Mr. Greyson, something else you should probably know… You're famous."

"Sorry?" This time, he was the one asking for clarification. He was _famous_? How was that even _possible_ , when he'd been a baby when he'd been left at a Muggle orphanage? Unless he'd been some sort of child hero, how could _he_ possibly be _famous_?

"The wizarding world was, until ten years ago, in a war, against Dark forces led by You-Know-Who." There it was, that term, Dark, again. Harry supposed that meant evil, since the wizarding world would have criminals and villains, as well. And war tended to lead to an increase in crime…

Though, what McGonagall had said… "I don't." Who was this 'You-Know-Who'?

"My apologies," McGonagall corrected. "His name was, well, Voldemort." That was French, Harry recognized, for 'flight from death'. A pseudonym, most likely, but then, why the 'You-Know-Who'? "No one likes to say his name - people are still scared - so he is normally known as You-Know-Who, or He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named." Harry noted that the professor had used both past and present tense - was this Voldemort gone?

"Ten years ago, the war was at its peak," McGonagall continued. "Constant battles and deaths, terror around, mistrust between friends, even the Muggles knew something was up. And then, on October 31st, 1981, he _disappeared_." Interesting. How- "He'd gone to Godric's Hallow, to kill your parents, Lily and James Potter." Harry soaked up the names - he hadn't known _anything_ about his family, or his parents, whom he presumed were dead, if this Voldemort was as powerful as McGonagall had described. "And… he tried to kill you, but he failed, and he disappeared. Gone, presumably dead." _What_?

Harry stared incredulously at her. Voldemort had tried to kill him and had _died_? He'd been _one_! "Was it something my parents did?" he guessed. A ritual, a spell, perhaps?

"No one knows," McGonagall answered quietly, sadly. Had she known his parents? "But they say it was you who stopped him; you who survived the Killing Curse with nothing more than a scar on your forehead." She gestured at the lightning-shaped scar, half hidden behind his bangs, the one that was incredibly frustrating during missions because of its noticeability. But _how_ was that _possible_ , that he could survive this 'Killing Curse' that presumably never failed, at the age of one? "They call you the Boy Who Lived," McGonagall added. Wonderful. The wizarding world, it seemed, loved its monikers.

But… in some ways, entering the wizarding world was looking more appealing than ever. A recent war, his own fame, the complete absence of an intelligence system, a smaller population - presumably… There was so much _opportunity_ , so much Harry could _do_ and _change_ and _improve_. And it seemed, going to Hogwarts would be a necessity, to maximize his opportunities; though McGonagall hadn't said so explicitly, he assumed that the majority of the wizarding population, in Britain at least, went to the magical school. A perfect opportunity to establish connections. Not to mention, he would learn to control his magical ability, something that would _definitely_ be necessary, and something he would _have_ to go to Hogwarts for, unless there were private tutoring options…

At the same time, though, he already had a well-established position, in CHERUB, something he'd waited _five years_ for, something he'd gone through _basic training_ for. And he was making a difference, mission by mission. He was saving lives. He was bringing down villains. And… he _loved_ going on missions. Loved the thrill, the danger, the knowledge that he was doing good. Even if he had to kill - even though he _had_ killed - it was more than worth it, to him. If he went to Hogwarts, he would lose that all.

But, if he went to Hogwarts, there was a chance he could do so much more, than what he could at CHERUB. He could help save the world, the magical world.

Though… "Is Voldemort dead?" McGonagall had said that he was 'presumably dead,' but she'd also used both past and present tense to describe him. And if this Voldemort was coming _back_ , it would be even _more_ important to establish an intelligence system, among other things. Knowledge of the other side was always crucial, in conflict.

The professor eyed him, a spark of satisfaction in her eyes, though Harry wasn't sure if it was from his response or, perhaps, the fact that he'd used Voldemort's name. Though that was hardly fair, since he had never known any of the fear associated with it. "No one knows," she answered again. "He disappeared, but there are some who believe he has simply gone into hiding, and is biding his time." McGonagall was part of that 'some', Harry had no doubt. And it seemed… unlikely, at best, that he could have _killed_ the wizard, so he supposed that he, too, was part of the 'some'.

But that still left the question: CHERUB or Hogwarts? On the one hand, there was his goal for the past six years. There was relative security and the surety that he would save lives. On the other, there was magic - and that was nearly enough said. There was wider opportunity, and a prominent lack of something he could establish. There was a chance to learn about a whole new _world_. There was a mysterious villain who was not-quite dead. There was the chance to find out more about his family and his past and his strange, magical abilities.

Well… when he put it like that, it wasn't exactly an impossible decision.

"May I inform you of my response, rather than send an owl?" He assumed that was how wizards delivered letters… unless they could _talk_ to the birds? Could magic be used to talk to animals? Were animals intelligent enough to, say, be used as spies? For that matter, could wizards transform _into_ animals? McGonagall had said that she taught 'Transfiguration', after all.

"Of course," McGonagall answered expectantly. Harry glanced at Jenna, who was watching their exchange impassively, then back at the witch.

Last chance to decline. "Yes," he answered. McGonagall gave a small, satisfied smile. "Yes, I'll attend Hogwarts."

"Very well then. I'll be back again tomorrow, to assist you in purchasing your supplies." And, Harry hoped, in purchasing books that would tell him more about the wizarding world. He had a month, after all, until school started; a month to catch up with those who'd grown up in the wizarding world.

-oOo-

_31 July 1991_  
_CHERUB Headquarters  
_ _0730 Hours_

"Can I help you, Suriyawong?" Harry finally asked, annoyed, at the Thai boy, who'd been standing in the corner of his room for the past thirty minutes, glowering angrily at Harry. It was that time of year again, it seemed, when Suriyawong grew insecure about their friendship, and Harry had to comfort and reassure him, again. The first time it had happened, Harry had considered ending their friendship, since Suriyawong was a pain to deal with, the best of days; however, he'd weighed the advantages - predominantly, the connection Suriyawong provided him to the rest of CHERUB - against the disadvantages - the sheer effort and annoyance expended on maintaining their relationship - and had decided that having Suriyawong as a friend was worth it.

"You're leaving CHERUB," Suriyawong stated flatly. Interesting. So he'd found out - though, of course, it was difficult, if not impossible, to keep a secret at CHERUB. He hoped, though, that the magical part, at least, remained unknown.

"Yes," Harry answered. Ah, it seemed, Suriyawong was taking that decision badly. "My apologies; I was about to tell you."

"Sure you were," the other boy sneered. "Why don't you _tell the truth_ for once? You don't _actually_ want me as your friend."

"Suriyawong, you _are_ my friend. Maybe I didn't like you that much, in the beginning, but I've grown to care about you. You've been a great friend to me, and, you're a great person."

"Then why are you leaving?!" Suriyawong demanded. Harry barely kept from staring incredulously at the other boy.

"Suriyawong," he said patiently, "this isn't about you. How much do you know?"

"Enough," Suriyawong huffed. "And of course this has to do with me! You're leaving CHERUB! You're leaving me!"

Harry paused a moment. "You do know what that sounded like, don't you?"

Suriyawong held his glare for another moment, before breaking down into chuckles. "Okay, fine. You're _definitely_ not my boyfriend. I don't have any claim over you, other than being your best mate. But Harry," he added, his face morphing into his renowned puppy-eyed pouting expression, something that had saved him many times, when he'd been in trouble. "Won't you tell me why?"

"Of course, Suriyawong. I can't tell you everything - secrecy laws and all -" Something Suriyawong, or any CHERUB agent, would understand, "but I can tell you this: that I've been accepted into a school that will act as a passageway into a world that my family was part of, and that this is a brilliant opportunity for me, to make a difference."

Suriyawong gave a deep sigh. "That's not anything at all," he complained. "I know, I know," he added quickly, "secrecy laws, but… You're _leaving_."

"I am," Harry agreed. They were both silent for a long moment, and Harry contemplated why he was still cultivating their relationship, when it would have been so easy to end it, without consequence, since he was leaving the Muggle world and joining the wizarding one. It was just habit, he supposed, and that he didn't want to hurt his friend. Huh. He never would have thought, six years ago, that that would be true, but he realized, then, that what he'd said earlier was true. He did like Suriyawong.

"I guess… this is goodbye," Suriyawong said hesitantly, sadly.

"I still have a month… but yes. After that, I'm not coming back." There were breaks, of course, in the Hogwarts school year, but Jenna had arranged for a former-CHERUB couple known for their discreetness to host him, if necessary, over the summer, to keep from attracting too much attention to his situation.

Suriyawong looked down. "I'll miss you," he murmured.

"And I, you," Harry returned. He was almost surprised to find that it was the truth. He glanced at the clock in his room; it was nearly time for his meeting with Professor McGonagall. "Suriyawong-"

"You have to go. I get it. I know, I'm leaving, too." Suriyawong sighed, then moved to the door. "Bye, Harry."

"Goodbye, Suriyawong." And, goodbye, CHERUB.


	3. Diagon Alley

**Disclaimer: Harry Potter, CHERUB, and associated universes belong to J.K. Rowling and Robert Muchamore, respectively, and not me.**

* * *

**Chapter 2: Diagon Alley**

_31 July 1991  
_ _Diagon Alley_

Apparition, Harry decided, was the worst invention wizards could have come up possibly with. It took all his self-control not to stumble unsteadily about, as he released McGonagall's arm. He wondered if it was only Side-Along Apparition, as the professor had called it, that was so distinctly uncomfortable, or if the form of wizarding transportation was simply unbearable in general. For that matter, what _were_ other forms of magical transportation? McGonagall had said that you had to be seventeen to Apparate legally, and, it seemed, wizards didn't know much about Muggle transportation, so…

Pushing the thoughts away - his questions would surely be answered today, both by going to Diagon Alley, and by his purchasing of whatever books he could find - Harry examined his surroundings. They stood at the entrance of a tiny pub, whose sign proclaimed that it was the Leaky Cauldron. The pub seemed to be hidden from Muggles, too, as, despite it's position sandwiched between a record store and a bookshop, Harry didn't think it was _that_ unnoticeable, to warrant not even the slightest glance, by those passing by, in its direction. But then, was there magic that could be specifically directed against Muggles? Was it possible to differentiate between Muggles and wizards through some sort of spell?

"Mr. Greyson," McGonagall called, and Harry realized that he'd been lingering.

"Potter," he corrected quietly, drawing yet another look of bemusement. "It'll be Potter from now on, off-campus." The professor nodded slowly in understanding.

Time to see how famous he was, really.

They entered the Leaky Cauldron.

Harry was… underwhelmed. The pub was dark, shabby, and relatively empty, with groups of witches and wizards, most of whom wore cloaks and robes that Harry assumed were standard magical wear, scattered around. It didn't look like a 'famous wizarding pub,' as McGonagall had described, but of course, looks could be deceiving.

The bartender looked up as they entered, smiling at McGonagall. "Minerva! Good to see you. Hogwarts business, I presume?"

"Yes, Tom," McGonagall said politely, though Harry got the feeling that she didn't particularly care for the man, or for what he sold.

No one had recognized him yet, so, casually, Harry brushed his hand through his hair, revealing the thin lightning-shaped scar on his forehead, the one that was, apparently, famous.

Though, that reminded him of something else he'd need to find out: why he'd been left on the doorstep of an orphanage, nearly ten years ago.

Tom, the bartender, who'd been glancing curiously at Harry, was suddenly staring at him with wide eyes. "Good Lord," the man said, "is this - can this be -?" Interesting; so he'd been recognized by the scar.

McGonagall pursed her lips, displeased at the turn of events, but it was too late to stop the pub, which had gone silent, its patrons peering to find out what had taken the bartender by surprise.

"Bless my soul," Tom whispered. "Harry Potter … what an honor." And the whispers began.

Tom had hurried out from behind the bar, and rushed to Harry, seizing his hand, tears - of all things - in his eyes. "Welcome back, Mr. Potter, welcome back." Harry watched, wide-eyed, as chairs scraped and the crowd conglomerated around him. Was he _really_ … Could they _possibly_ …

It was lucky, he supposed, that he'd never come across a witch or wizard in his missions, because a reaction like this would have blown his cover. Not that he would have understood the attention.

They - Tom, the crowd, even McGonagall - seemed to be waiting for him to speak. And this _would_ be a perfect time for Harry to begin networking, for him to address this crowd… if he could think of something to say.

To his intense annoyance, though, he found himself unable to remember how to speak.

What could you say to a population that saw you as a hero for doing something you couldn't even remember? Not to mention, CHERUB didn't exactly teach speech-writing. It was more of an infiltrating-criminal-groups sort of organization.

He met McGonagall's gaze; the professor looked slightly disappointed, though unsurprised, as though she should have expected his speechlessness. His gaze turned into a glare, and suddenly, Harry knew what he would say.

"Hello," he addressed quietly, allowing a nervous smile to show on his face. "It's a pleasure to meet you - all of you. I-" He gave a small, self-deprecating laugh. "I honestly don't know what to say. After all, I'm only eleven years old. I haven't even begun at Hogwarts." Humility was a virtue, after all. "And yet, you all know who I am. You all know my name. You have welcomed me to your world, to your homes, and for that, I am deeply grateful." They hadn't _literally_ , of course, but the idea would boost their pride; he could already see them straightening, slightly.

Next, though, he _would_ have to address the war, and what he was famous for, despite how little he knew of everything.

Had he mentioned how much he hated being ignorant?

"Ten years ago, we were at war. And though I may have been the one to end the war, I know that each and every one of you played a role, fighting for what was right, fighting to rid the world of those who wished to do it harm. And so, I thank you. Because _you_ are the ones who have shaped our past, who are painting our present, and who will determine our future. And I can already see that we're in good hands."

Not his best speech, and if he'd been given the time, Harry was certain he'd be able to write a better one, but his audience seemed satisfied, applauding him with great enthusiasm. And then, they were approaching him, jostling about to shake his hand and introduce themselves. He made sure to address each by name, a trick he'd learned at CHERUB, that would leave an impression even if he didn't remember, later.

McGonagall was watching him, eyebrows raised, an unreadable expression in her eyes, so he smiled nervously at her. It seemed, she had at least an inkling that it was all an act. Well, he couldn't have expected _everyone_ to be fooled.

"P-P-Professor Q-Quirrell," a pale, stammering man introduced, drawing Harry's attention. Interesting - a professor at Hogwarts? "C-can't tell you how p-pleased I am to meet you."

"Good day, professor," Harry answered politely. "If I may; you are a professor at Hogwarts?" The man nodded, and Harry allowed his smile to widen. "Brilliant. What do you teach?"

"D-Defense Against the D-D-Dark Arts," Quirrell muttered. Harry kept the surprise from showing on his face. This pale, frightened man taught Defense? Against Dark magic - whatever that was? Was he even a particularly effective teacher? "N-not that you n-need it, eh, P-P-Potter?"

"I'm sure there's much that I need to learn, just as like any first year," Harry told him diplomatically. Not to mention, he doubted it was by his own efforts that he'd 'defeated' Voldemort.

"Mr. Potter," McGonagall called quietly.

"Oh, yes. I'm terribly sorry," he told the crowd that hadn't diminished the slightest, despite the number of hands he'd shaken and people he'd greeted. "But I do have to go, to buy my school supplies. Yes, yes, thank you. It was a pleasure to meet you, too." He, somehow, managed to excuse himself from the crowd, joining McGonagall at the back of the bar.

"You certainly handled the crowd well, Mr. Potter," McGonagall noted.

He smiled innocently at her. "I was taught to handle any situation to the best of my ability, professor."

She made a small humming sound, seemingly content with his answer, and led him to a walled courtyard behind the pub, facing a brick wall and a couple of trash cans.

Harry watched carefully as McGonagall drew her wand again, then tapped a brick three up and two to the right of the center trash can, three times. The brick seemed to wiggle, then vanished, a small hole appearing at the center of the wall, that grew wider and wider, until, moments later, they faced a tall archway, and a cobbled street.

"Welcome, Mr. Potter, to Diagon Alley," McGonagall introduced. And, unlike with the Leaky Cauldron, Harry had to admit that the alley was impressive.

The sun shone brightly over various colorful buildings, which seemed to defy the laws of physics as they tilted and leaned precariously. Stores advertised their contents proudly, and Harry wished he had the time to explore them more deeply, as his gaze flickered over the various signs they passed along the street.

They approached a snowy-white building along the alleyway, that towered over the other shops. "Gringotts, the wizarding bank," McGonagall told him. "We'll be retrieving money from your vault, first." So he had a vault. Was that from his parents?

His eyes widened as he saw the ones in charge of the bank. The goblins were even smaller than he was! Though, if goblins existed, then did elves? Fairies? Giants? Pixies? Trolls? He wondered if they would see them at Hogwarts, though asking felt impolite, as goblins, at least, seemed to be as intelligent as humans. For that matter, though, could goblins do magic?

"Good morning," McGonagall addressed a free goblin as they approached the counter. "We would like to take some money out of Mr. Harry Potter's vault."

"You have his key, ma'am?" the goblin asked, after a moment's pause at his name. A key… that was interesting. Was that all that was necessary to access a vault? But then, were there forms of magical identification?

"Yes," McGonagall answered, drawing a tiny golden key from her coat. Did they use locks and keys to secure the vaults, then? That didn't seem very safe; Harry himself owned a lock gun specifically for picking locks. Surely there were magical ways to lock things… and magical ways to pick locks? What would keys even be for, then?

"Professor McGonagall!" a booming voice declared from besides them. Harry, and McGonagall, turned, to see the largest man Harry had ever met. A giant? Did those exist? He put that thought aside for further consideration. "Fancy seein' yeh here!" the man continued.

"Hagrid," McGonagall greeted, a tight smile on her lips.

"An' this mus' be Harry Potter!" the giant proclaimed, looking to Harry. McGonagall's expression grew darker, and Harry was amused to see the conversation around the bank grow quiet, as goblins and wizards alike tried inconspicuously to stare at Harry. He smiled politely, meeting each pair of eyes, and was glad that, this time, no one rushed towards him - the goblins didn't seem to care for his fame, and the lack of movement by others kept the wizards in place. Then, he offhandedly brushed aside his bangs again, revealing his scar to the onlookers. It seemed that the lightning-shaped mark was what the wizarding world was most interested in.

"Hagrid!" McGonagall was hissing, sounding uncannily like an angry cat. "Could you have shouted it any louder?"

"Ah, sorry," Hagrid replied, his voice slightly quieter. He brightened again, with another glance at Harry and his scar. "Blimey, Harry, yeh look so much like yer dad. 'Cept the eyes - yeh've got yer mum's eyes." So that was how he'd been recognized. McGonagall was nodding, unconsciously, in agreement with Hagrid's statement. So they'd both known his parents.

"I'm afraid we haven't been introduced?" Harry prompted. "Hagrid, was it?"

"Yeah, that's me," the giant said cheerfully. "Rubeus Hagrid, Keeper of Keys and Grounds at Hogwarts." He held out a hand, and nearly shook Harry's entire arm - nearly, because Harry was stronger than he looked.

The goblin across the counter from Hagrid cleared his throat unpleasantly. "Was there something you wanted, _sir_?" he asked pointedly.

"Ah, sorry," Hagrid said again. "I've got a letter here from Professor Dumbledore, about the You-Know-What in vault seven hundred and thirteen." The chatter around the bank had begun again, slightly masking Hagrid's words, but from McGonagall's angry glare, Harry got the feeling that Hagrid wasn't supposed to have said that so loudly. And what was this 'You-Know-What', that Professor Dumbledore - the headmaster at Hogwarts, presumably - wanted?

It was peculiar, though; if this 'You-Know-What' was something to be discreet about, then why send this Hagrid? It was obvious to Harry, who'd only just met him, that Hagrid wasn't a discreet person.

Unless there was some sort of underlying plot?

"I will have someone take you down to the vault," the goblin McGonagall had spoken to said. Besides them, Harry could hear the goblin with Hagrid repeat the same line, word-for-word. How creative.

"Why don' yeh jus' have someone take us down teg'ther?" Hagrid suggested. That seemed… odd. "I'd like ter get ter know yeh, Harry," the giant added. It didn't alleviate Harry's suspicion.

"As you wish," the goblin with McGonagall and Harry said, looking distastefully at Hagrid. "Griphook!"

The goblin called Griphook led them down the hall, and Hagrid continued to stare at Harry. A questioning glance on Harry's part had the man adding, "Las' time I saw you, you was only a baby. Blimey, Harry."

"You knew me when I was a child?" Harry asked. In the year or so before he'd been left at the orphanage, before

"S'pose so," Hagrid replied. "Didn' see much of yeh, with yer family bein' on the run an' all, but I brough' yeh out of the house, meself, an' flew yeh ter those Muggles."

"The orphanage?" For that matter, why _had_ he been left with Muggles? Surely there were wizarding orphanages, or at least policies for magical adoption.

Hagrid looked confused, now. "Nah, yer aunt an' uncle's place." What?

"Your aunt and uncle, it seems, decided to leave you at an orphanage, rather than raise you," McGonagall added, her expression tight and angry.

"And no one thought to check up on me?" Of course, the paper trail would have disappeared, once he'd been accepted into CHERUB, but he'd spent four years at the orphanage, and McGonagall _had_ found him, to tell him about Hogwarts.

McGonagall's scowl deepened, and she muttered something about _Albus_ and _insistence_ and _worst sort of Muggles_. Albus Dumbledore, the headmaster of Hogwarts? Was he the one who'd decided to leave Harry, first with this aunt and uncle of his, and then at the orphanage? Harry doubted these relations of his could have been very good guardians, if they'd chosen to leave him at the orphanage, and found it odd that, given the wizarding world's view of him as a _hero_ , they would let him be sent off into the Muggle world.

They had reached one of the doors, which revealed a narrow stone passageway lit by flaming torches, before more could be said. Griphook whistled, and a small cart came speeding towards them. They clambered on, the size of the cart seeming to expand slightly to fit them all, and then, they were off.

Harry couldn't hold back a slight, excited smile. He imagined that the trip was something like a Muggle roller coaster; it was absolutely _exhilarating_. From both McGonagall's and Hagrid's expressions, neither adult felt the same, but he couldn't fathom why. It reminded him of missions; this was what he _loved_.

The ride was a considerably poor place to have a conversation, too… And indeed, no one spoke, until the cart reached a sudden, jerking halt.

"The Potter trust vault," Griphook declared. The 'trust' vault… was there a main vault too, then? Harry didn't know much about Muggle banking and inheritance practices, though, and even less about wizarding ones. Something else he'd have to research.

The goblin brought out the key and unlocked the door, and Harry wondered if there was any way to request further protections for his vault. Green smoke - dust? spells? - billowed out, setting Harry on edge; he _hated_ not being able to see, especially after his glasses incidents at the orphanage. The smoke cleared quickly, and he barely withheld a gasp. Inside the vault was a _fortune_ of gold, silver, and bronze coins.

"The gold coins are Galleons, the silver Sickles, and the bronze Knuts," McGonagall informed him helpfully.

"And the pounds exchange rate?" Harry asked.

"Five pounds per galleon," Griphook answered. Harry was fairly certain, though, that pure gold the size of a Galleon was worth more than that. Unless it wasn't pure gold? Was that what goblins did, then - minting coins?

Harry brought out a small bag, which held a few supplies he would never consider leaving his room without, and moved to begin filling a pouch, then paused. "Is there a spell that can move a specific amount into my bag?" he asked. He wasn't opposed to doing it himself, of course, but surely there were more effective methods.

"Might I ask why, Mr. Potter?" McGonagall spoke.

He gave a small, innocent smile. "So I can know exactly how much I've taken out," he answered. "And, I'd like to know more about magic." She nodded, though still looking to him suspiciously. Had he changed masks too often around her?

"How much?" Griphook asked.

Harry actually had no idea.

"You'd want about 160 galleons for supplies," McGonagall informed him. She likely had experience in those matters. But 160 galleons… that was £800, a _lot_ for school supplies. Though, he'd also want some extra funds, just in case.

"I'd like two hundred galleons," he decided. Griphook nodded, snapping his fingers, and there was a sudden additional weight in his bag. McGonagall, meanwhile, was watching him cautiously. Was it the additional amount he'd asked for?

"Er, can we go more slowly?" Hagrid asked as they exited the vault.

"One speed only," Griphook answered, with a slight smile. Harry wasn't sure if it was because, like him, the goblin enjoyed the speed, or because Griphook enjoyed Hagrid's discomfort. He didn't seem to care much for wizards.

For that matter, what were wizard-goblin relations like?

They boarded the cart and hurtled deeper through the bank. Goblin underground architecture, Harry reflected, was impressive. But of course, there was also magic, so he couldn't exactly judge how impressive it actually was. And goblins, as shown by Griphook's snap, could do magic.

"Vault seven hundred and thirteen," Griphook announced as they, once again, lurched to a stop. Harry watched, fascinated, as the goblin approached the door, because this vault had no keyhole.

Presumably, that was better security than his. This 'You-Know-What' was important, then.

"Stand back," Griphook ordered. He stroked the door with one of his fingers, and it seemed to melt away. "If anyone but a Gringotts goblin tried that, they'd be sucked through the door and trapped in there," the goblin told them. A Gringotts goblin - so there were other sorts of goblins? Then, was there some sort of magic that identified goblins as 'Gringotts goblins'? Could magic be used to identify people?

The vault itself seemed to be empty, but closer examination revealed a grubby little package, wrapped in brown paper, about the size of Harry's palm. Hagrid picked up the object and tucked it within his coat.

Harry couldn't help but notice the exact pocket the giant had placed it in. He knew he _shouldn't_ , but this puzzle wasn't something that could be solved by reading a few books, and he was _curious_ …

They boarded the cart again, and this time, upon exiting, Harry made sure to 'trip' in clambering out, grasping Hagrid's coat to stabilize himself. There was a slight smile on his lips as they exited the bank, Hagrid insisting on accompanying them to purchase supplies. Eliza had been right, and Harry was suddenly incredibly grateful that she'd taught him that trick. Now, all he would need to do was to sneak off at some point - perhaps to the lavatory - to examine his prize. He'd return it, of course, but he'd figure out what it was, first.

"Might as well get yer uniform, firs'," Hagrid said, nodding towards a store titled Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions. "Actually, would yeh mind if I slipped off fer a pick-me-up in the Leaky Cauldron? I hate them Gringotts carts."

"Of course," Harry replied, internally puzzling at the strange behavior. First he insisted on coming along to purchase supplies, and then he left at the first possible opportunity? It was almost as though someone had _told_ Hagrid to tag along with them, but that was impossible, wasn't it?

"Yeh comin', Professor McGonagall?" Hagrid offered.

"No, thank you, Hagrid," McGonagall answered politely. "I'll be waiting outside, Mr. Potter," she told Harry.

"Hogwarts, dear?" a squat, smiling witch asked as Harry entered the store.

"Yes, Madam…?"

"I'm Madam Malkin, dear," she answered, beaming at him, now. "Got the lot here - another young man being fitted up just now, in fact."

The other young man turned out to be another eleven-year-old, with a pale, pointed face and silver-blond hair, who sat on a footstool while a second witch pinned up his long black robes. Madam Malkin sat Harry down, and proceeded to do the same with him.

"Hello," the boy said. "Hogwarts, too?"

"Yes," Harry responded. Before he could say more, or introduce himself, the blond boy spoke again.

"My father's next door buying my books and Mother's up the street looking for wands. Then I'm going to drag them off to look at racing brooms. I don't see why first years can't have their own. I think I'll bully Father into getting me one and I'll smuggle it in somehow." Harry marveled at the boy's words. He'd never met a child as obviously spoiled as this one; the other orphans at New Haven, whatever their other faults, knew about lack, and CHERUB agents were accustomed to addressing their own needs and wants. Even the son of the gang lord, who Harry had befriended on his last mission, hadn't been so entitled. He doubted this boy would have lasted a day in basic training.

"Have _you_ got your own broom?" the boy continued.

"No. Out of curiosity, how were you planning on smuggling the broom in?" Harry countered, before the boy could continue.

"In my trunk, obviously. It's not as though they search students' trunks upon arriving." If that were true, then bringing some of his CHERUB equipment, including the handgun Reynold and Eliza had gifted him after their last mission, would be simple.

"Do they ever check students' trunks?"

"Not unless there's some emergency, or they receive a tip," the boy responded. "Why? Planning on smuggling something in, yourself?"

"Perhaps."

The boy examined him, as though looking to him in a new light. "Know what House you'll be in yet?" He must have been referring to the Houses McGonagall had told him about earlier, Griffindoor, Slithering, Huffpuffle, and Ravenjaw. Or something similar.

"No. Aren't we only sorted once we arrive?"

"Well, yes, I suppose. No one really knows until they get there, but I know I'll be in Slytherin, all our family have been." So Houses weren't randomly assigned. "Imagine being in Hufflepuff, I think I'd leave, wouldn't you?" the boy continued.

"I'm sure each House has its strengths," Harry replied diplomatically.

The boy snorted. "I suppose… but Slytherin's obviously the best. I say, look at that man!" Hagrid stood outside the front window, attempting to hand McGonagall a large ice cream while balancing two more in his other hand. "Who is he?"

"Rubeus Hagrid, Keeper of Keys and Grounds at Hogwarts," Harry answered. "Or so he says," he added, seeing the boy's questioning look.

"You know him?"

"I met him a few minutes ago, at Diagon Alley, but apparently, he knew my parents. He insisted on coming with Professor McGonagall and I to purchase my supplies."

The blond made a scathing sound. "I pity you. Imagine walking around all day with _him_." He paused, then seemed to realize something. "'Professor McGonagall and I' - you're not a _Muggle-born_ , are you?"

A 'Muggle-born' - that must have been a child with non-magical parents. So they did exist, and apparently, were scorned, at least by this boy. "No," Harry replied. "My parents were magical."

"Good," the boy said. "I really don't think they should let the other sort in, do you? They're just not the same, they've never been brought up to know our ways. Some of them have never even heard of Hogwarts until they get their letter, imagine. I think they should keep it in the old wizarding families." Interesting, so discrimination against these 'Muggle-borns' existed in the wizarding world. Though was the cultural difference between the magical and Muggle worlds really so predominant to warrant such disdain? "What's your surname, anyway?" the blond boy added.

"Potter," Harry responded, a mischievous glint in his eye. Time to see how this boy would react. "My name is Harry Potter. And you are?"

The boy's grey eyes stared incredulously at him for a moment, before he managed to recover, an impressive mask covering his features. Perhaps he was more CHERUB-material than he'd seemed. "Malfoy, Draco Malfoy."

"That's you done, my dear," Madam Malkin said, her eyes attempting to see behind Harry's bangs and to his scar. Perfect timing.

"Thank you, Madam Malkin," Harry responded politely, casually brushing his hair aside once more to grant her a glimpse of his scar. "I'll see you at Hogwarts, Malfoy," he added, as he exited.

McGonagall had accepted the offered ice cream, and the sight of the stern professor eating the brightly-colored, melting snack was amusing. It also meant that Harry could hardly decline the treat, but a convenient spill would also send him to clean up in the lavatory.

Or so he'd thought. Apparently, there was a spell for ice cream spills, and a wave of McGonagall's wand cleaned up the ice cream instantly. He'd have to remember to take magic into account, for his ploys.

They went to Flourish and Blotts next, to purchase books, and Harry made sure _not_ to show his scar, not wishing to attract attention so he could examine the 'You-Know-What'. As he browsed the store, he was glad he'd brought the extra forty galleons. It was, in fact, difficult to choose the books to buy, among the ceiling-high shelves, but somehow, Harry managed. He also purchased a bag with an Undetectable Extension Charm placed on it, to carry all his books, and was amused to find that McGonagall was taking even _longer_ than he, browsing the shelves. Hagrid found himself distracted by a book on dangerous magical creatures, and Harry took the moment to slip off, to the lavatory.

Locking himself in a stall, Harry finally took out the brown package from vault seven hundred thirteen. He memorized the knot patterns around it, then carefully untied the packaging.

And then, he stared. The 'You-Know-What', as it turned out, was a blood-red rock.

Why was a _rock_ so important, to warrant such protection at Gringotts? And, if it were that important, why were they removing it from a bank vault that only Gringotts goblins could access? Did they think a goblin was going to steal it? But then again, Harry supposed that magic couldn't make any safe impenetrable. Magic could protect things, but, presumably, magic could also break through those protections.

But why would anyone want to steal a rock? Was it some sort of powerful magical artifact?

Harry repackaged the stone, and returned to Hagrid and McGonagall, who were _still_ examining their respective books. While he had the time, he might as well get started researching the stone... He found a book on magical artifacts, sat down in one of the bookstore's plush chairs, and began reading.

Too soon, Hagrid was calling for him - and McGonagall - that they needed to purchase the other supplies. Reluctantly, wondering if there was a magical public library system, Harry left the store.

They also went to a store selling cauldrons, a stationery store for quills and parchment, an astronomy items store for a foldable telescope, and an Apothecary for potions ingredients.

Outside the Apothecary, Hagrid snatched Harry's supplies list and examined it. "Just yer wand left - oh yeah, an' I still haven't got yeh a birthday present."

"Sorry?" Harry asked. His birthday was in August - oh. Of course. "Is today my real birthday?"

"O' course!" Hagrid exclaimed, just as McGonagall turned to stare at him and said, "It is, Mr. Potter."

"July 31st?" Harry confirmed.

"Blimey, Harry, yeh really didn' know?"

"I grew up in an orphanage," he answered. "How could I have known?" His birthday had, in fact, been November 1st, the day he'd arrived at the orphanage, for his time there, but he'd changed it to August 31st upon arriving at CHERUB, because the rounds of basic training began in September, and he hadn't wanted to wait three months after he'd turned ten.

Hagrid still looked shocked at his revelation, but quickly turned to the issue of what gift to get. Harry would have preferred another book, but Hagrid's expression at his suggestion told him that that wasn't happening.

"Tell yeh what, I'll get yer animal. Not a toad, toads went outta fashion years ago, yeh'd be laughed at - an' I don' like cats-"

McGonagall cleared her throat, and Hagrid cut off abruptly, glancing nervously at the professor. So McGonagall was a cat person?

"Er… cats are great… but loads of kids want owls, they're dead useful, carry yer mail an' everythin'… I'll let yeh decide…"

"Perhaps an owl, since I'll no doubt need to send mail?" Harry suggested, seeing the humorous glint in McGonagall's eyes - she hadn't _actually_ taken Hagrid's statement badly.

"Sure, sure!" Hagrid exclaimed happily.

Harry chose a beautiful snowy owl who'd taken a liking to him, and who, it seemed, was particularly intelligent - she'd poked at the pocket that held the blood-red stone several times before Harry had distracted her with some owl treats. He wasn't quite sure what he would name her… perhaps a wizarding name from one of the books he'd purchased?

But the gift was also another perfect opportunity... He gave Hagrid a small hug in thanks, slipping the blood-red rock into the man's pocket at the same time, without getting caught, of course. Now, if only he could figure out what the stone _was_...

McGonagall led the way to a store titled 'Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C.', and Harry wondered if wizards could really trace their lineage so far back. They entered the store, which looked like a library, except it was packed with thousands of narrow boxes, that presumably stored wands. An old man with wide, pale eyes stood unobtrusively in the corner, and he smiled slightly as Harry met his gaze.

"Good afternoon," the man said softly. Hagrid jumped, nearly breaking the spindly chair he'd sat on, and masking any sort of reaction McGonagall might have had.

"Good afternoon. Mr. Ollivander, I presume?"

"Yes, that is I," the man said. "And you, yes, yes. I thought I'd be seeing you soon. Harry Potter." Someone else who'd recognized him without seeing the scar - his parents? "You have your mother's eyes." Hagrid had said the same. Perhaps it was their color? Green eyes were one of the rarest colors, after all, and he'd been told that it was one of his most striking features. "It seems only yesterday she was in here herself, buying her first wand. Ten and a quarter inches long, swishy, made of willow. Nice wand for charm work." So wands themselves could be specially suited for certain types of magic. He wondered how he would choose his wand.

"Your father, on the other hand, favored a mahogany wand. Eleven inches. Pliable. A little more power and excellent for transfiguration. Well, I say your father favored it - it's really the wand that chooses the wizard, of course." Harry's eyes widened at that. So wands were semi-sentient? How? Could anything be learned from the type of wand that a wizard owned?

Ollivander had been approaching Harry, and now stood so close that he and Harry were almost nose to nose, though Harry met his strange silver eyes unblinkingly.

"And that's where…" Ollivander reached a long, white finger to brush aside Harry's bangs and touch the lightning scar on his forehead. Harry barely kept from flinching. He didn't like being touched.

"I'm sorry to say I sold the wand that did it," Ollivander said softly. "Thirteen-and-a-half inches. Yew. Powerful wand, very powerful, and in the wrong hands… well, if I'd known what that wand was going out into the world to do…"

"But Voldemort would have only been eleven years old," Harry told him in the same soft tone, ignoring the flinch Hagrid gave at his use of the name. "You couldn't have known." And it had been the wizard's decisions that had made him evil…

"True," Ollivander agreed. "True. He was eleven years old, yet already a budding genius. Charismatic. Ambitious. Deeply curious. And yet, strangely guarded."

Harry stared at him, at the description that could have been of _himself_ \- outside of the genius part. But he wasn't evil. He _couldn't_ be, could he? He derailed that train of thought with another question. "What was his name?"

"You have spoken it already," Ollivander answered evasively. Harry shook his head slightly.

"'Voldemort' can't be his true name." Behind them came a loud snapping sound - Hagrid had flinched again, and this time, the chair had broken. "No one would name their child 'Flight from Death'."

"You speak French."

"His name?" Harry wouldn't be distracted.

"…Tom Riddle. He was Tom Marvolo Riddle."

"Harry's here ter buy 'is wand, sir," Hagrid interrupted loudly from behind them, shattering the quiet mood.

"But of course," Ollivander replied quickly, his attention turning to Hagrid. "Rubeus Hagrid. Oak, sixteen inches, rather bendy, wasn't it?"

"It was, sir, yes," said Hagrid.

"Good wand, that one. But I suppose they snapped it in half when you got expelled?" Harry turned to look at the man. He'd gotten _expelled_? For doing what? And expelled students weren't allowed wands? What would have happened if he'd declined his Hogwarts acceptance?

"Er - yes, they did, yes," Hagrid said, shuffling his feet. "I've still got the pieces, though," he added brightly.

"But you don't use them?" Ollivander questioned sharply.

"Oh, no, sir." Harry noticed that he was gripping his pink umbrella very tightly. Was it possible, then, to perform magic through broken wand pieces? For that matter, how common was wandless magic? He knew it was possible, at the very least - he'd performed it often enough.

"Hmmm," Ollivander said, giving Hagrid a piercing stare. "Well, now - Mr. Potter. Let me see." He pulled a long tape measure from his pocket. "Which is your wand arm?"

"I'm right-handed," Harry answered.

"Hold out your arm. That's it." He began taking various odd measurements, first by hand, and then, the tape measure moving autonomously. Wandless magic? "Every Ollivander wand has a core of a powerful magical substance, Mr. Potter," Ollivander explained. Were these cores what gave wands sentience? "We use unicorn hairs, phoenix tail feathers, and the heartstrings of dragons." Another three magical creatures that existed - but did they _kill_ dragons for their heartstrings for wands? "No two Ollivander wands are the same, just as no two unicorns, dragons, or phoenixes are quite the same. And of course, you will never get such good results with another wizard's wand." But it _was_ possible to use another's wand?

"That will do," Ollivander added, as he stepped away from the shelves, a pile of boxes in his hand. The tape measure crumpled to the floor. "Right then, Mr. Potter. Try this one. Beechwood and dragon heartstring. Nine inches. Nice and flexible. Just take it and give it a wave."

Harry gripped the wand and waved it, but Ollivander snatched it away almost immediately - so quickly that Harry had to fight his instincts to keep the wand in his grasp.

"Maple and phoenix feather. Seven inches. Quite whippy. Try-" But that wand, too, was snatched back.

"No, no - here, ebony and unicorn hair, eight and a half inches, springy." Another failure.

Harry began to wonder what, exactly, they were looking for, as the pile of tried wands grew higher and higher, though Ollivander seemed to grow happier as the number of wands increased.

"Trick customer, eh? Not to worry, we'll find the perfect match here somewhere - I wonder, now - yes, why not - unusual combination - holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches, nice and supple."

Harry took the wand, and realized what it was they'd been looking for. There was a sudden, comforting warmth in his fingers. He raised the wand, twirling it slightly, and a stream of glimmering sparks shot from the end, throwing dancing spots of light onto the walls. Hagrid whooped and clapped, McGonagall applauded lightly, and Ollivander cried, "Oh, bravo! Yes, indeed, oh, very good. Well, well, well… how curious… how very curious…"

Looking slightly incredulously at Ollivander, Harry suppressed the urge to ask what was so 'curious'. If Ollivander wished to tell him, as he no doubt did, he would. Indeed, after waiting a few moments, the old wandmaker spoke again. "Curious… I remember every wand I've ever sold, Mr. Potter, every single wand. It so happens that the phoenix whose tail feather is in your wand, gave another feather - just one other. It is very curious indeed that you should be destined for this wand when its brother - why, its brother gave you that scar."

Interesting, but Harry couldn't see how that might be significant, unless there was some sort of unusual reaction wands that shared cores had. But, surely, Voldemort's wand would have disappeared after the wizard himself disappeared, ten years ago? Or at least been destroyed?

"Yes, thirteen-and-a-half inches. Yew. Curious indeed how these things happen. The wand chooses the wizard, remember… I think we must expect great things from you, Mr. Potter… After all, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named did great things - terrible, yes, but great." Harry met Ollivander's gaze and silently resolved that he would do great things if he could, but that he would _never_ turn evil. He paid Ollivander the seven Galleons, and they left the shop.

-oOo-

_31 July 1991_  
_CHERUB Headquarters  
_ _2145 Hours_

Minerva McGonagall watched as James and Lily's son disappeared into the building. Harry Potter was... not what she'd expected. Not only was the boy a Muggle _spy_ , of all things, but he'd proven, throughout the day, that he had plans. When she'd first met him, she'd seen him as a polite, but quiet boy. That certainly still was true, but there was a lot more to him. There was his speech, in the Leaky Cauldron, which served some purpose she was still unsure of. There was his interaction with Draco Malfoy. There was the dozens of books he'd purchased at Flourish and Blotts, covering a myriad of topics. There was the fact that his wand was the _twin_ of You-Know-Who's. There was his eerie gaze, that made you feel like he was dissecting you with his eyes. There was all the questions he _hadn't_ asked, all the things he _hadn't_ said. Minerva didn't know what to make of him.

One thing was certain, though. Harry Potter wasn't their perfect Gryffindor hero. Minerva wasn't even sure that he would be in Gryffindor, though the idea of the Boy Who Lived in _Slytherin_...

She Apparated away, appearing just outside the Hogwarts grounds, then made her way to her office. The month before term was always incredibly busy.

Her door opened, and Albus Dumbledore stepped inside.

"Albus," she greeted. "What can I do for you?"

"Good day, Minerva!" the headmaster of Hogwarts said warmly. "You took Harry Potter to Diagon Alley today, didn't you? Did you notice anything about him?"

Minerva glared. She couldn't believe him.

First, what had Albus been thinking, send _Hagrid_ to retrieve the _Stone_ , when it was obvious the man couldn't be discreet to save his life? And Minerva was fairly certain that it hadn't been Hagrid's idea to accompany them for further shopping. What sort of game was Albus playing? Not to mention, there were the facts she'd confronted him about earlier: that Harry Potter had been raised in an _orphanage_ , that the boy was a Muggle child _spy_ , and that _Albus had had no idea_. The old man had seemed concerned, when they'd realized the strange address of the boy's Hogwarts letter, but had assured her that he had a plan.

Well, if he wouldn't tell her his newest scheme, Minerva wouldn't tell him what she'd observed of Harry Potter. Albus was waiting for an answer, so she told him, vaguely, "Mr. Potter is an interesting child. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a meeting with the Davis family in fifteen minutes - since _Severus_ refuses to meet with students." Not that she blamed Albus for that decision. Sending Severus to meet with Muggle-born students and their families was decidedly a poor idea.


	4. The Hogwarts Express

**Disclaimer: Harry Potter, CHERUB, and associated universes belong to J.K. Rowling and Robert Muchamore, respectively, and not me.**

* * *

**Chapter 3: The Hogwarts Express**

_31 August 1991  
_ _CHERUB Headquarters_

Something was up with Harry, and Suriyawong was determined to find out what.

It had started, he knew, when Jenna McAfferty had called his friend to her office, coming _herself_ , for some reason. The day after, Harry had disappeared, and come back with a trunk - who even used trunks anymore? - full of mysterious objects that, apparently, fell under some secrecy laws' jurisdiction. And _then_ , Harry had disappeared into his room for the next month, only emerging for meals and for class, and not even allowing Suriyawong in to do homework with him.

But several facts just didn't fit; that there was another spy agency that wanted Harry - another _child spy_ agency? -, that Harry would be willing to leave CHERUB to join that agency - he'd already proved himself, through basic training, and his first mission -, and that it had something to do with Harry's family - what were the chances of that? And so, Suriyawong had deemed it necessary to do a little more research, something he rarely did, unless it had to do with his pranks, or his friends. Whatever had happened to, and was happening with, Harry, most definitely fell into the latter category. And, technically, he hadn't explicitly promised Harry that he would stay out of it, and not investigate on his own. Maybe whatever Harry was tangled up in had to do with secrecy laws, but it wasn't as though Suriyawong couldn't keep a secret. And if he could figure out what that secret was, he thought he deserved to know it.

So, he'd convinced Eliza and Reynold, the only two others on campus who could have been counted as Harry's friends, to throw the other boy a surprise birthday party, something that would ensure that Harry would leave his room. Of course, Suriyawong couldn't well sneak into the room, himself, during the party, but he'd learned realized from a young age that, despite the capabilities of every CHERUB agent, no one quite expected the kids from the junior campus, who weren't old enough for basic training, to be involved in elaborate plots. The more complex they were, the more the older, qualified agents were suspected. As he'd grown older, he'd created his own network of sorts - though it was mostly used for pranks.

"Everything set, Dee?" Dee Robins, an eight-year-old who was especially discreet and talented at sneaking around, rolled her eyes.

"Stop being such a mother hen," she grumbled. "I've got this. You know I do."

And she _did_ , he knew she did. And she was _right_ , he was being a mother hen. Still, he couldn't stop worrying. Because he knew that, if Harry found out, his friend would see it as a betrayal. And Suriyawong _couldn't_ lose him, even if Harry was going away. Despite the popularity he'd gained throughout CHERUB, over the years, Harry was his best friend. Harry had saved him after his brother-

Suriyawong cut that thought off, abruptly. It had been something much less traumatic than what Harry had been going through at the time, and yet, Harry had comforted him. Harry had pulled him through _it_.

Which was why he _had_ to find out what was the matter with Harry. With one last nod to Thea, he exited the hallway, up the stairs to Reynold's room.

"Suriyawong!" Eliza hissed, opening the door and hustling him inside. "Suriyawong, where on Earth have you been? Reynold's already left!"

"Sorry," he apologized quickly. "I got caught up talking to one of the younger kids. Wanted to know more about basic training."

Her glare softened slightly - the kids on junior campus were perpetually asking about basic training, something every qualified agent had had to deal with. Before she could speak, though, someone else hissed, "Down the hall!" and everyone ducked into their hiding spots. 'Everyone' had, in fact, turned out to be quite a lot of people, despite Harry's general isolation on campus. Suriyawong suspected - not to be arrogant - that a good majority were here because of _him_ , because word of Harry's departure had spread, on campus, and many were looking to replace Harry as Suriyawong's best friend.

As though any of them _could_. Harry had been Suriyawong's friend, however grudgingly, long before Suriyawong had become the king of pranksters and, consequentially, the most popular boy on campus. Outside of Eliza and Reynold and a few of the older kids, they hadn't even been at CHERUB during those ages.

Harry's voice spoke from outside the door, just as a key unlocked it, and the doorknob turned. "Reynold, I-"

"SURPRISE!" Suriyawong shouted, along with the rest of the room, as the lights flickered on, illuminating the decorations. He observed, amusingly, that Harry had automatically taken a defensive stance at the surprise, though he was fairly certain that was what any CHERUB agent worth their salt would have done.

"Happy birthday, Harry, mate!" he told Harry, approaching the other boy, whose posture had relaxed.

"Suriyawong. I should have known. But you didn't have to," Harry added quickly.

Suriyawong only shrugged. "It's your birthday, mate, of course we had to." Harry's gaze told him that he wasn't convinced. "And… I guess, it's also a kind of going-away party. Since you're leaving tomorrow."

"Suriyawong…" Harry said apologetically.

"Nope! We're not going to think about that, not now! This is a party!" Right on cue, one of the _surprises_ he'd left went off, and, as the unfortunate victim was drenched in water, the atmosphere relaxed. Because it _was_ a party, _despite_ Suriyawong's ulterior motives.

But, as Dee sneaked into his room, a digital camera in hand and a wide-eyed expression on her face; as Suriyawong reviewed the images that seemed, somehow, to imply that _magic_ was real, he started wondering if he really should have gotten into this mess in the first place. And one statement of Dee Robins, formerly Demelza Rookwood, would bewilder Suriyawong, all throughout the night, and the rest of the month. For she had told him, "There were two locks on his trunk. One I opened with the lock gun, but that didn't work with the other. And… I think I opened the other with _magic_."

-oOo-

_1 September 1991  
_ _King's Cross  
_ _0945 Hours_

Harry made his way to platform nine-and-three-quarters with little difficulty; outside of McGonagall informing him of how to access the platform, he'd read about the history of the Hogwarts Express, including the platform, in _Hogwarts, A History_ , a fascinating book.

He'd arrived at the platform relatively early, too, with only a few scattered families present, so he found an empty compartment at the end of the train, closed the door, and pulled out one of his books to reread.

At half past ten, the door to his compartment slid open. A girl with bushy brown hair, who was already wearing her Hogwarts robes, stood in the frame, hesitating before straightening her back proudly.

"Hi. Can I join you?"

"But of course," Harry answered politely. "I'm Harry Potter. And you are?"

"Are you really?" she asked, eyes widening. "I know all about you, of course - I got a few extra books for background reading, and you're in _Modern Magical History_ and _The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts_ and _Great Wizarding Events of the Twentieth Century_." If this girl knew about him only through these books, Harry thought, it was likely that she was Muggle-born and, like him, had decided to read to better understand the wizarding world.

A Ravenclaw, most likely.

"I'm also in a number of fiction books, but I wouldn't trust the information in those," Harry commented. She couldn't 'know all about him' just from reading a few books. "But you are?"

"Hermione Granger. What are you reading?"

He showed her the cover: _Wizarding Traditions and Culture_. It seemed that Draco Malfoy had been right that there was a great difference in culture between wizards and Muggles, but that was to be expected given that the International Statute of Secrecy had been imposed in 1689.

"Oh, I haven't read that one." Hermione sounded disappointed at that fact - definitely a Ravenclaw. "What's it about?"

"Wizarding traditions and culture," Harry told her drily.

"Oh, haha. But really."

Harry shrugged. "An explanation of various traditions of the wizarding world, including the House systems-"

"Hogwarts Houses?"

"No," he replied, slightly annoyed at the interruption, but careful not to show it. "Familial Houses. They're like Muggle Noble Houses."

"Wizards have those?" Harry nodded. "Huh. Can I borrow that book from you sometime?"

"But of course."

Hermione smiled. After a few moments, she, too, pulled out a book - _Hogwarts, A History_.

Just as Harry reached a section on the Wizengamot of the Ministry of Magic, the quiet croak of a toad drew his attention to the ground. Likely a lost pet, so he quickly scooped it up and placed it in a - porous - compartment of his bag.

Ten minutes later, a whistle sounded, and, a minute later, the train began to move. Harry could see Hermione's grin from over her book, even as she tried to hide it. But he, too, was excited - they were going to Hogwarts, to learn _magic_.

The compartment door slid open again, and a round-faced boy with brown hair, who looked on the edge of tears stood nervously in the corridor. "Erm, sorry, but have you seen a toad at all?"

"Y-" Harry began.

"Have you lost one?" Hermione interrupted. Harry thought the answer to that was rather obvious.

"Yes, I've lost him! Trevor keeps getting away from me!" the boy wailed.

Hermione stood quickly. "I haven't seen, Trevor, is it? But I can help you look for him!" She hesitated a moment, allowing Harry, finally, to speak. He pulled the toad out of his bag.

"Is this Trevor?"

"Yes!" the boy exclaimed, quickly grabbing the toad. "Thank you! My Gran would kill me if I lost him."

"You just happened to find him, Harry?" Hermione asked skeptically. "How come I didn't notice?"

"Harry?" the boy repeated.

Harry nodded. "Harry Potter, and this is Hermione Granger. And you are?" The boy's eyes widened at his name, and it took him a moment to regain his composure enough to respond.

"Neville. Neville Longbottom." One of the Noble and Most Ancient Houses, as well as part of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. He could be an important ally to have.

"Would you like to join us?" Harry invited. "If that's fine with you, Hermione, of course."

"Sure - but when did you find Trevor?"

"Twelve minutes ago," Harry replied, glancing at his watch. She looked incredulously at him again, opening her mouth before closing it, after a moment's thought, while Neville awkwardly joined them, sitting besides Harry. The boy glanced around uncomfortably, clutching his toad, as Hermione returned to her book.

Harry _really_ didn't care for conversation at the moment, but… "How long have you had Trevor?"

Neville seemed relieved at his question. "Great Uncle Algie gave him to me, just after I got my Hogwarts letter. They were all worried - they thought I might not be magic enough to come, see."

"What of accidental magic?"

"Oh, I did some of that, but not for ages - not until I was eight. My Great Uncle Algie kept trying to catch me off my guard and force some magic out of me. He pushed me off the edge of Blackpool pier once, I nearly drowned-"

"He did _what_?" Hermione interrupted. "He nearly _killed_ you?!"

"He-" Neville protested faintly.

"Isn't that child abuse? Did anyone do anything about it?" she demanded. "Doesn't the wizarding world have laws against that?"

"Wizarding laws, in that regard, are very similar to Muggle ones," Harry answered. And there were grey areas to the law - case in point, CHERUB, an organization that skirted at the edges of the law, sometimes even crossing the line, to catch worse transgressors.

"Well, then why didn't he get in trouble?"

"They are very similar to Muggle laws, in that charges are only pressed if the perpetrator is caught."

"So your family didn't-" Hermione began, then cut off with a huff.

"Forgive me," Harry said to Neville, "but you are of a Noble and Most Ancient House, are you not?" Neville nodded. "Then that would have been another part of the issue."

"What do you mean?" Hermione demanded, looking angrily at them both again. "Why would Noble and Most Ancient Houses matter?"

"The Noble and Most Ancient Houses, as well as the Noble Houses, play an important role in the wizarding government-"

"So they can just buy their way out of prison?" Hermione interrupted, indignant. Neville made a small noise, but didn't speak. "Purebloods," she muttered.

"Is the Muggle world much different?" Harry challenged. Not only could wealthy people 'buy' their way out, but a lack of explicit evidence meant that, sometimes, the guilty could go free; CHERUB agents were part of the effort to counter that.

"Yes!" Hermione exclaimed. Harry looked at her, wondering if she really was that naïve, and she flushed. "In theory…"

"There's a forty percent chance, in the Muggle world, that a murderer gets away. Fewer than half of violent crimes, and less than a fifth of property crimes, even reach prosecution, which might not even lead to conviction. Only 9% of crimes, in general, end with suspects charged. Need I go on?"

Hermione frowned at him. "How do you know all those statistics?" she asked suspiciously, and Harry internally cursed. Of course a _normal_ eleven-year-old wouldn't…

"My guardians were involved in Muggle law enforcement," he told her. Technically true… only leaving out that he, too, had been involved in that.

She, and Neville, looked confused at that, for whatever reason, but Hermione's next statement continued her argument. "That doesn't mean we shouldn't work on solving the problem!"

"Of course not," Harry agreed. That was why, after all, he wanted to establish an intelligence system in the wizarding world, at the very least. And Hermione's passion for justice _was_ a good sign for that, not to mention she was fairly intelligent, though not very discreet in her views… perhaps he could begin recruiting, already. Though, he would need to evaluate the current state of the wizarding justice system, which wasn't exactly something he could learn of from books.

"So you think… Great Uncle Algie should have been sent to A-Azkaban?" Neville asked quietly, stuttering at the last word. Hermione frowned at him, confused, but Harry started.

"Is that the _only_ magical prison in Britain?"

"What's Azkaban?" Hermione questioned, looking annoyed to be out of the loop.

"The wizarding prison," answered Neville.

"It's guarded by dementors," Harry added. He'd done some _special_ research, into the place… "Dark creatures that feed on souls and drain peace, hope, and happiness from their surroundings."

"What?" Hermione looked horrified at his description. "And they guard a _prison_? What about human rights?"

Harry shrugged. Personally, having read of some of the crimes of some criminals, he thought they deserved it - evil needed to be punished. Though, for minor offenses… And for justifiable crimes… "Are there no other magical prisons in Britain?" he repeated, looking to Neville.

"Er, I don't think so?" the other boy said. "I mean, there's Ministry holding cells, I think, but otherwise…"

Improvements to law enforcement would, obviously, hold priority over prison reform, and it had never been Harry's job to care what happened to criminals after he, and other CHERUB agents, caught them, so he set aside the issue. "Enough about that. What House do you think you'll be in?" It was an obvious topic change, but that was, hopefully, understandable, given what they'd been talking about.

Neville, who looked relieved at the change in topic, answered. "My mum and dad were in Gryffindor… but I'll probably be a Hufflepuff." He said the last part glumly.

"There's nothing wrong with Hufflepuff," Harry noted. The House was generally looked down upon, and _he_ didn't think he had the necessary Hufflepuff traits, but he also was unlike Draco Malfoy, who'd sneered at even the thought of a Hufflepuff sorting. Like he'd said at Madam Malkin's, all the Houses had their strengths.

"Of course not," Neville agreed quickly. "But Gran's always going on about me not living up to my parents' legacy, and…" He trailed off.

"You should be in whatever House they decide you're most suited for," Hermione told him gently. Harry stayed quiet - he'd never been good at being sincere while comforting others, even if he felt sincere. His experiences with Suriyawong had taught him that much. "I hope I'm in Gryffindor," Hermione added, "it sounds by far the best; I hear Dumbledore himself was in it. I suppose Ravenclaw wouldn't be too bad, either… What about you, Harry?"

He heard the door slide quietly open behind them, and caught sight of Draco Malfoy and two presumably first-year boys who looked like bodyguards, in the reflection of the window, and answered for them all.

"I'd say that Ravenclaw, Gryffindor, and Slytherin are all possibilities." He had a thirst for knowledge, was ambitious, and it could be said, based on his CHERUB experience, that he was brave.

"Slytherin is obviously the best," Draco drawled, startling both Hermione and Neville, "but I suppose Ravenclaw would also be acceptable." It sounded like a great concession, coming from him.

"Who are you?" Hermione asked, looking annoyed that she hadn't noticed him.

"Draco Malfoy," he answered, "and these are Crabbe and Goyle."

"Do you have first names?" Harry commented mildly, to the two boys, who stared at him blankly, then looked to Draco. The smaller of the two, Crabbe, answered first.

"Vincent."

"Gregory," the taller said, after another moment's pause.

"Pleasure to meet you," Harry told them both. "I'm Harry Potter, but you likely already knew that; this is Hermione Granger, and Neville Longbottom."

"Granger," Draco repeated, then sneered. "That's not a wizarding name."

"I'm Muggle-born," Hermione said sharply. "That's not a problem, is it?"

He looked disdainfully at her again, then turned to Harry. "Careful now, Potter. You don't want to go making friends with the wrong sort."

"Why you-!" Hermione began, though there was a slight tremble in her voice. Neville, too, was glaring at Draco, his expression darting between righteous anger and fear.

"I won't alienate three-quarters of the population without further consideration," Harry told Draco, his voice deliberately light. "And I haven't formed all my opinions on the wizarding world." That would imply that his views could still be shaped by outside influences such as Draco himself, though Harry doubted he'd be easily manipulated by anyone. "However, I would hate to lose a chance at alliance with anyone this early on. After all, we all have our strengths," he added, echoing his earlier statement. That applied both to Hermione and Neville, and Draco and his friends. "I would caution you against the same."

The pale boy opened his mouth to retort angrily, then closed it, a thoughtful expression in his eyes. There was a long silence. Hermione glared distrustfully at Draco, Vincent, and Gregory, while Neville looked at Harry as though seeing him under a new light, and Vincent and Gregory looked, confused, at their leader. Finally, Draco spoke.

"So long as you associate with Muggle-borns and near blood traitors, Potter, I cannot be seen as your _friend_."

"I understand, Malfoy," Harry replied, careful to use the boy's surname like he had for Harry. Perfect. He smiled slightly as the blond boy and his two bodyguards left the compartment.

"What a horrible little bigot," Hermione sniffed angrily once the door had slammed shut. "I don't get why you're smiling, Harry," she added, looking to Harry.

Neville nodded, looking worriedly out the window. "The Malfoys are blood supremacists, but they're also powerful, and Malfoy just dismissed your friendship offer. That's not something to be happy about."

"I'm looking forward to our future interactions," Harry told her and Neville cryptically, the smile still present. Because that _hadn't_ been an outright refusal, which proved that Draco _was_ willing to be friends, or at least allies. And that was perfect.

Besides, he'd read that Lucius Malfoy, presumably Draco's father, was a follower of Voldemort who'd escaped Azkaban through bribes and connections. If his CHERUB training had taught him anything, it was that a friendship with Draco would be perfect for taking down this criminal.

-oOo-

_1 September 1991_  
_Hogsmeade Station/Hogwarts  
_ _2035 Hours_

"Hey! Are you Harry Potter?" a voice whispered to him, as the first years followed Hagrid through the dark path that had Harry fingering his concealed gun, instincts on edge. He'd been separated from Neville and Hermione in the crowd, and had stationed himself at the fringes of the group.

"Yes," Harry told the boy politely. He could tell, by the dim light, that the boy had red hair and freckles, and seemed to be holding some sort of rodent in his hands. Harry didn't recognize him. "And you are?"

"Ron. Ron Weasley. Have you really got- you know…" Ron gestured vaguely towards Harry, who assumed he meant the famous lightning-shaped scar on his forehead.

"Yes," Harry said again, brushing his bangs aside in what was becoming an incredibly - and slightly annoyingly - familiar movement. Ron gaped, though Harry was fairly certain the scar was less than visible in the darkness.

"So that's where You-Know-Who-?"

"Presumably," Harry answered. "I don't remember it, though."

"Nothing?"

He shook his head, even as a flash of green light filled his mind. But those could have been dreams.

"Wow," Ron said, still staring at the scar. Harry estimated that he would trip for not paying attention to his surroundings, right about… now…

"Ah!" Ron exclaimed, as he tripped over a branch along the path, his arms flailing outwards - and latching onto Harry, who'd stretched his arms out to steady the boy. "Thanks, Harry," Ron said, a hint of wonder in his tone.

"Excuse me, but are you Harry Potter?" another voice interjected, and Harry sighed internally, even as he turned to face the speaker, a stout blond boy whose eyes shone excitedly. Besides him, a tall, skinny blond with an upturned nose looked peeved that his conversation had been interrupted by his friend's interest in Harry.

"Yes, and you are?" Harry greeted politely.

"Ernest Macmillan, but you can call me Ernie," the boy said quickly. "I can't- The Boy Who Lived- And you're in our year! I could hardly believe it myself, when I did the math, years ago." Harry nodded politely along. Years ago - a month ago, even - he hadn't known that magic existed, much less anything about his future classmates.

"And you are?" Harry asked the boy Ernie had been talking to.

"Zacharias Smith," the boy said proudly. "Descendent of Helga Hufflepuff." Interesting. None of the books had mentioned anything of the descendants of the four Hogwarts founders, and Harry wondered if Slytherin, Gryffindor, and Ravenclaw descendants, too, existed. He opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted.

"Yeh'll get yer firs' sight o' Hogwarts in a sec," Hagrid called to the group, "jus' round this bend here."

They rounded the bend, and saw the castle, perched atop a high mountain across a great black lake, its windows sparkling brightly and its towers seeming to reach into the starry sky. Harry heard many appreciative sounds around, and he, too, was rather impressed. Hogwarts was, in a word, beautiful.

"No more'n four to a boat!" called Hagrid, as they approached the small boats that sat in the water by their side of the shore. Harry found a boat, and was quickly joined by Ron, then Hermione and Neville, though Ernie looked disappointed that there was no space remaining with their boat.

"Everyone in?" Hagrid shouted, from his own boat. "Right then - FORWARD!"

The little fleet of boats moved all at once, gliding smoothly across the lake - part of the enchantment that was nearly as old as the Hogwarts Express system, or so Harry had read. Everyone was silent, some in awe, some in nervousness, as they approached the school, and Harry took the moment to examine the other first years; outside of those he'd met already, it was a pair of Indian-looking twins - because twins were incredibly useful in missions -, a honey-blonde who was also examining the occupants of the boats, a trio of intelligent-looking boys who examined their surroundings with an analytical air, and a weedy-looking brown-haired boy who was fiddling with something between his hands, who stood out. Harry would have to look more into them, as potential recruits and allies.

"Heads down!" Hagrid yelled, as they approached the cliff face, and they traveled through a curtain of ivy through a passageway in the stone, finally reaching an underground harbor, that they all clambered out onto. They then followed Hagrid's lamp to a set of huge oak doors.

Harry wondered absentmindedly if maps of Hogwarts would be passed around, or even if such maps existed - _Hogwarts, A History_ hadn't mentioned or included any, though it had talked about Ravenclaw's moving staircases. Surely, though, magic could monitor the current state of the castle, and parchment could be enchanted to show the layout? Perhaps even to show the locations of all of Hogwarts's inhabitants? That could be incredibly useful… though also potentially a privacy concern. Wizarding laws didn't have much in terms of privacy legislation, either - a law enforcement agent's dream.

"Everyone here?" Hagrid confirmed, then raised his fist and knocked thrice on the doors. They swung open at once, revealing Minerva McGonagall, who peered at them all, a stern expression on her face. "The firs' years, Professor McGonagall," said Hagrid.

"Thank you, Hagrid. I will take them from here," McGonagall returned, her voice still slightly frosty towards the man who Harry was fairly certain was a half-giant - somehow, giants were even _larger_ than Hagrid's approximately three-meter stature.

They followed her into the castle, into the enormous entry hall whose ceiling was so tall it could have fit a true giant and whose stone walls were lit by flaming torches - and against which students would be very visible. The ability to perform the Disillusionment Charm, Harry decided, would be incredibly useful for sneaking around the school, because among the grey stone walls and the marble staircase, a black-robed student would be seen from across the hallway, but that was fairly advanced magic. Or an invisibility cloak, but those were rare.

"Welcome to Hogwarts," McGonagall began, as they reached a small chamber off the hall where Harry could hear the rest of the student body was. "The start-of-term banquet will begin shortly, but before you take your seats in the Great Hall, you will be sorted into your Houses." She went on, explaining what Harry had already read in _Hogwarts, A History_ , and so instead, Harry mentally categorized the students, between the wide-eyed Muggle-raised and the haughty purebloods; the studious Ravenclaws-likes and the brash to-be-Gryffindors. Plus some other students, who weren't so easily characterized.

"I shall return when we are ready for you," McGonagall finished. "Please wait quietly." She left the chamber and disappeared behind the door to the Great Hall. The first years subsided into whispered, anxious conversation once again; Harry heard Hermione rapidly reviewing all the spells she'd learned and wondering which ones they'd need, for the Sorting Ceremony, presumably. Though Harry doubted they'd have to perform magic to be sorted - how could that possibly determine the character traits of each House? Perhaps it could separate the Ravenclaws, as all the students who'd studied the spell beforehand, but what about the others? And what about the advantage the wizard-raised students might have-

What was _that_? Quiet screams echoed throughout the hall, and Harry watched with wide eyes as a group of pearly-white and slightly transparent figures seemed to emerge from the back wall of the chamber. They must have been the Hogwarts ghosts. The group seemed not to notice the first years as they conversed, seeming to be carrying on an argument, though Harry got the feeling that part was for show - how could they have _not_ noticed the group of small, frightened first years? Most likely, they were on their way to the Great Hall for the feast, though they were slightly late, in comparison to the rest of the school. He supposed the true 'entertainment' of the banquet wouldn't begin until the first years entered the hall, to be sorted, so it was fine for the ghosts to emerge through the walls after the others.

Though, that ability, to walk through solid objects, could be useful for intelligence, and Harry made a note to see if he could recruit a Hogwarts ghost as one of his agents. Could ghosts become invisible, too? What were the rules on ghost-hood - could ghosts, for instance, go places they hadn't gone before, in life?

"Forgive and forget, I say," one of the ghosts, a fat little monk, was saying. "We ought to give him a second chance-"

"My dear Friar, haven't we given Peeves all the chances he deserves?" Ah, so they were speaking of the resident poltergeist, a spirit his books had mentioned - and warned against. Though, the books had also said that there was no known way of removing the poltergeist from the castle, so what could the ghosts have been speaking of, there? "He gives us all a bad name and you know, he's not even really a ghost - I say, what are you all doing here?" The ghosts had finally seemed to notice the first years, and Harry found that 'realization' unlikely.

"New students!" said the ghost who'd been called 'Friar'. "About to be Sorted, I suppose?"

No one answered again, though a few students nodded slowly, and Harry sighed internally, deciding that they needed a spokesperson. Well, it _would_ be useful to begin building his reputation already.

"Yes," he answered, drawing all the attention towards himself. "And it's a pleasure to meet you all, the famous ghosts of Hogwarts." Many of the ghosts smiled at his compliment.

"Why, thank you!" the Friar ghost exclaimed merrily. "Who might you be, young man?" he asked, curiously.

"Harry Potter," Harry replied. The first years around him, who hadn't already known his identity, gasped and began murmuring excitedly. Some of the ghosts, for that matter, did the same.

"Well… I wish you good luck, Mr. Potter," the Friar, who seemed to have been appointed the spokesperson of the ghosts, said. "I wish you all good luck," he added, speaking to all the first years, before shaking his head slightly, as though to clear his thoughts. "Hope to see you in Hufflepuff! My old House, you know." His last statement seemed rushed; and indeed, McGonagall had emerged again from the double doors of the Great Hall.

"Move along now," she said sharply, startling some of the first years. "The Sorting Ceremony's about to start." One by one, the ghosts disappeared again past the front wall.

"Now, form a line," McGonagall instructed, "and follow me."

Harry moved to the back of the line out of habit, and followed a nervous girl with blonde pigtails and her redhaired friend, both of whom kept glancing back at him, then whispering to themselves. He heard the phrases 'Boy Who Lived' and 'You-Know-Who' mentioned.

He began to smile as they passed through the grand doors and into the giant hall, a room lit by thousands of floating candles, and dominated by four long tables that ran across, as well as a table at the end of the hall where the teachers sat. The ceiling of the hall, bewitched to look like the sky outside, was mesmerizing, and Harry recognized many constellations from his CHERUB survival training. Astronomy was a Hogwarts class - could that be taught by observing the Great Hall's ceiling? Somehow, that seemed unlikely. Harry smiled again, overhearing Hermione, too, mention the ceiling's enchantment.

Feeling slightly uncomfortable at all the attention - all the possible threats, all of whom knew more magic than Harry himself - he watched as McGonagall silently placed a stool before the first years, atop which sat a patched, dirty, wizard's hat. Harry watched it bemusedly, noting the rest of the hall's gaze upon the hat, as well. For a few seconds, there was silence; then, the hat twitched, seemed to rip, and began to _sing_ :

_"Oh, you may not think I'm pretty,_

_But don't judge on what you see,_

_I'll eat myself if you can find_

_A smarter hat than me._

_You can keep your bowlers black,_

_Your top hats sleek and tall,_

_For I'm the Hogwarts Sorting Hat_

_And I can cap them all._

_There's nothing hidden in your head_

_The Sorting Hat can't see,_

_So try me on and I will tell you_

_Where you ought to be._

_You might belong in Gryffindor,_

_Where dwell the brave at heart,_

_Their daring, nerve, and chivalry_

_Set Gryffindors apart;_

_You might belong in Hufflepuff,_

_Where they are just and loyal,_

_Those patient Hufflepuffs are true_

_And unafraid of toil;_

_Or yet in wise old Ravenclaw,_

_If you've a ready mind,_

_Where those of wit and learning,_

_Will always find their kind;_

_Or perhaps in Slytherin_

_You'll make your real friends,_

_Those cunning folk use any means_

_To achieve their ends._

_So put me on! Don't be afraid!_

_And don't get in a flap!_

_You're in safe hands (though I have none)_

_For I'm a Thinking Cap!"_

The hall burst into applause upon the hat's conclusion, and, with a barely noticeable pause, Harry joined in, his mind analyzing every word the hat had sung. The hat could see inside their _minds_? As in, it could _read minds_? That made sense, in a twisted way - how else could they be sorted based on personality traits? - but another part of him was concerned. Deeply concerned. Because he had secrets, ones that were slightly more significant than the average eleven-year-old's. And there were things he'd been through that he didn't want _anyone_ to know about. That he _couldn't_ have anyone knowing about.

The wizarding punishment for murder, even for minors, even in self-defense, was ten years, and Neville had confirmed that those would be in Azkaban. His CHERUB placement had exempted him from Muggle punishment, especially since it was CHERUB itself that had put him in that position, but…

He _couldn't_ go to prison. He _wouldn't_.

Even as Harry stood amongst the first years, truly afraid for the first time since he'd boarded the Hogwarts Express, the Sorting Ceremony was beginning. McGonagall was explaining the process, then calling the first student - Hannah Abbott, the blonde pigtailed girl in front of him - to the stool.

He couldn't let the Sorting Hat know… but he couldn't very well _refuse_ to try on the hat! He began brainstorming contingency plans, if - _when_ \- the hat learned his secret. He would have to escape... no one knew of the gun, still concealed in his robes... he'd have to take a hostage, someone from a powerful family - Draco, Ron, Neville? - who wouldn't struggle... Neville, it had to be Neville... and then, and then...

Somehow, in what seemed like seconds, McGonagall was calling, "Potter, Harry!" and the hall was bursting into excited whispers. Harry felt as though he was walking to his doom, as he moved through the crowd of first years that parted for him, and sat on the stool. The hat dropped onto his head, obscuring his vision, but Harry couldn't bring himself to care.

He waited for the ax to fall.

"Well, well. What have we here?" a small voice said in his ear - or in his mind, he wasn't sure which. "You've had quite an interesting life, haven't you, Mr. Potter?"


	5. Sorted

**Disclaimer: Harry Potter, CHERUB, and associated universes belong to J.K. Rowling and Robert Muchamore, respectively, and not me.**

* * *

**Chapter 4: Sorted**

_1 September 1991  
_ _Hogwarts Great Hall  
_ _2115 Hours_

"Yes, a very interesting life," the hat's voice continued. "I can't say I've met many eleven-year-old murderers." Harry's heart sank, and his breath stilled. The hat knew. He prepared himself-

"Calm down!" the Sorting Hat exclaimed quickly. "No need to do... what you're planning. I'm not going to expose you!"

It wasn't?

"I don't tell anyone what I see in your minds," the hat explained. "I'm only here to sort you. And you're certainly not the first child I've sorted with a dark past, Mr. Potter."

He wasn't? A moment later, Harry felt incredibly self-absorbed. Of _course_ he wasn't. Hogwarts had been around for _centuries_ , and the hat must have sorted thousands of students, over the years. Of _course_ there would've been others like him, with pasts like his.

"Well, to be fair, being a child spy has only happened once or twice," the hat told him, piquing Harry's interest. So there _had_ been other CHERUB agents? Who? "But that's not important," it added hastily. "We don't have forever to sort you, after all. Now, let's see. Where best to put you?"

Harry waited.

"No requests?" the hat asked, sounding slightly amused. Well, technically, he did, but he'd wait for the Sorting Hat to state its opinions first.

"A pragmatic approach. Hmm… well, there's plenty of brains in there, an eagerness for knowledge - but only to fulfill your ambitions. My, my. You've got quite a thirst to prove yourself, Mr. Potter. To prove yourself, and to change the world. To 'better' the world, as you would put it."

That was fair, Harry supposed, but the world _did_ need to be improved.

"If you say so," the Sorting Hat answered. "And… plenty of courage, too. You enjoy dangerous situations, don't you, Mr. Potter?"

Well…

"Somewhat surprising, given your past," the hat continued. "Given what happened the last time you were in a dangerous situation… Micah Hood."

Harry flinched automatically, then steeled himself.

"No regrets, hmm?"

He _did_ regret it! It had been weeks before his constant nightmares of Micah Hood's dying brown eyes had begun to fade; months before he'd finally forgiven himself for the fact that, given the chance, he would have done it all again.

Oh. That was probably what the Sorting Hat meant.

But it was true. In the same situation, he would have done the exact same thing. He would have shot Micah Hood, to save Reynold. He would have aimed at the chest, the largest target, because his aim had been poorer, back then. He would have killed the Reaper, and anyone else who dared threaten those he cared about.

That Micah Hood had killed five people directly, and dozens more indirectly, hadn't hurt his perception of those events, either.

So, yes. In a way, Harry had no regrets for what had happened.

"Your thoughts on what happened are... more accepting than I would have expected," the hat mused.

That, Harry supposed, was because of CHERUB, of the counselor who'd talked him through those first few days, weeks, months. Because though his killing of Michah Hood had been horrific, it had also been justified. He couldn't have done anything else. And Micah Hood had been a criminal, a lowlife, and a villain.

"Very fierce ideas of good and evil," the Sorting Hat commented. "But where to put you? Slytherin would seem best, given your plans…"

Harry would accept Slytherin if he _had_ to… but he knew, given the House's reputation and its general antagonistic relationship with Gryffindor, it would cut off a lot of opportunities later on. _How about Ravenclaw?_ he offered instead. _You said I'm eager for more knowledge_.

"A negotiation, now, is this?" The hat sounded amused. "Your reason for not wanting Slytherin, though, only suits you more for the House, you know."

Not necessarily. Losing connections and opportunities could restrict the flow of _knowledge_ , after all. And espionage was all about gaining _intelligence_ and _information_ on others.

"Gryffindor could also suit you," said the Sorting Hat.

Harry raised an eyebrow beneath the brim, then wondered if the hat could see that. It had probably seen him raising his eyebrow in his own thoughts, at least. Either way, from the hat's tone, he knew that Gryffindor was the least likely of the three options it had presented, because he _wasn't_ recklessly brave. Mostly. Not to mention, a Gryffindor sorting would risk alienating the Slytherins.

The Sorting Hat made a strange coughing sound, that sounded suspiciously like, 'Slytherin'. Harry glared.

"Or Hufflepuff." Really? "You've got quite a devotion to those you care about," the hat said. "You're willing to kill for them."

But he wasn't _kind_ , and he didn't care, particularly, for hard work, when it wouldn't benefit him. So it had to be Ravenclaw, or Slytherin.

Not Slytherin.

"Are you quite sure?"

In Ravenclaw, he would have a chance to ally with others without centuries-old factors preventing him, so yes, he was sure. _Ravenclaw. Please_ , he added, cringing slightly at the word, at the weakness in it.

"Well, if you insist," the Sorting Hat said slowly, "then it had better be RAVENCLAW!"

The hall exploded into applause, as the hat was lifted from Harry's head, though he noted several shocked expressions and several disappointed looks, especially from the Gryffindor table - perhaps because he hadn't been sorted into Gryffindor, the House his parents had been in. Still, he realized that, somewhat unfairly, he was receiving the loudest applause yet.

Harry took a seat by the other Ravenclaw first years - specifically, the group of three boys he'd noticed earlier. His plotting earlier had kept him from paying attention to the names called, but he listened carefully to each student sorted after him: Oliver Rivers, a frightened-looking boy, became a Hufflepuff; Sophie Roper, a girl who sauntered up to the stool, was a Gryffindor; Abigail Runcorn, a girl with an analytical gaze, joined the Slytherins; Zacharias Smith, the descendent of Helga Hufflepuff, became a Hufflepuff; Dean Thomas, a nice-looking boy, was sorted into Gryffindor; Lisa Turpin, a girl who kept fidgeting as her eyes darted across the room, joined Harry and the other Ravenclaws; Ron Weasley, the red-haired boy, somewhat predictably became a Gryffindor; and Blaise Zabini, a boy with a haughty expression and an elegant air, became a Slytherin.

The headmaster, Albus Dumbledore, stood, after Blaise had found a seat besides Draco Malfoy, and Harry found himself waiting eagerly to hear what the man would have to say - almost all the books he'd read had mentioned Dumbledore's name in one field or another, not to mention McGonagall had, it seemed, complained about Dumbledore when they'd spoken of his upbringing.

"Welcome!" Dumbledore proclaimed. "Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts! Before we begin our banquet, I would like to say a few words. And here they are: Nitwit! Oddment! Blubber! Tweak! Thank you!"

Harry blinked at the elderly wizard, as he clapped along with the rest of the hall, not quite sure what to think. He would have dismissed the strange words as the headmaster losing it with age, only he knew that Dumbledore _was_ a brilliant wizard, and a twinkle in the man's eyes told him that he was still as intelligent and powerful as he had ever been.

In the blink of an eye, food had appeared on the previously-empty golden plates, prompting Harry to wonder where it had come from, and if the food supply could be… altered. Not that he was planning anything… but just in case.

"I'm afraid I didn't catch all of your names," one of the first years, a girl whose curly dark hair was tied in an elaborate half-braided hairdo. "I'm Morag MacDougal."

"Michael Corner," said one of the trio of boys, with dark brown hair that nearly reached his shoulders, a wide smile. He seemed confident and somewhat charismatic.

"Terry Boot," introduced another boy, with lighter brown hair, who gave off an air of a studiousness.

"Anthony Goldstein," the last of the trio, a blond boy and an open expression.

"I'm Su Li," said the Asian girl. "That's spelled S-u, and not S-u-e," she added, though the words seemed more playful than defensive or annoyed.

"Amanda Brocklehurst, but you can call me Mandy," said a girl with sandy brown hair. "No spelling requests here," she joked. She seemed to be friends, already, with Su, which implied that both were from wizarding families.

"Kevin Entwhistle," a slightly nervous-looking boy with curly blond hair said. He opened his mouth, as though about to make a joke about spelling, but closed it without speaking.

"Lisa Turpin," said the fidgeting brunette girl from the sorting, who seemed a bit more relaxed now that the attention wasn't solely on her.

"Oh- Padma Patil." It was one of the Indian twins who'd spoken, though she seemed more interested in studying Morag's hairstyle than in the conversation.

"Stephen Cornfoot," a blond boy who looked supremely uninterested in their conversation grunted.

"Harry Potter," Harry told them, though, from their expressions, the group had already known that. He had introduced himself to the ghosts in front of them, after all.

"Do you remember anything about, you know, that night?" the studious boy, Terry, asked curiously, leaning forward. Harry shook his head, and he sat back, disappointed. "I've always wondered… There've been countless theories about _why_ , but maybe, if you remembered anything, then that could help explain what happened."

"People have been trying to find out for years, though," the first blond, Anthony told him. "If they haven't been able to work it out, if _Albus Dumbledore_ himself hasn't been able to find out what happened, then I doubt _we_ can figure it out."

"Well, there is a theory that he, that Dumbledore, _does_ know what happened," the sandy-haired girl, Mandy, said in a conspiratorial whisper. "That he knew what happened, that night, why You-Know-Who disappeared, as well as why he went after them in the first place! They say he planned it all out, to finally defeat You-Know-Who!"

"Mandy…" the Chinese girl, Su began reproachingly, then sighed. "You and your conspiracy theories. _Professor_ Dumbledore would never do something like that, I'm sure."

"Well, it's _possible_ …" Mandy argued.

"Sure. Just like it's _possible_ that the Earth is flat, or that we're all not real, just figments of someone's imagination." Harry nearly raised an eyebrow. He didn't know where the second had come from, but wasn't the first one a Muggle conspiracy theories? But Su was obviously wizarding-raised…

"You know, there are actually Muggles who believe those things," said the nervous-looking boy, Kevin, who'd obviously been thinking along the same lines as Harry. A Muggle-born, it seemed.

"Really?" Mandy asked, her gaze bright. "Tell us more!" So Kevin begin, somewhat slowly at first, explaining the Flat Earth theory.

Meanwhile, though, the Indian girl, Padma had finally succumbed to her curiosity. "Merlin, MacDougal!" she exclaimed. Morag, the dark-haired girl, stared, confused, at her. "How did you get your hair to look like that?"

It took Morag a moment to respond; still staring bemusedly at Padma, she shrugged. "My mother taught me."

"Teach me! Please!"

"… I suppose I could make the time. Would next morning be fine?"

"Yes!" Padma exclaimed, though Morag had already moved on, to her conversation with the fidgeting Lisa, about whether the 'swooping evil', some sort of magical creature, deserved its XXXXX danger classification. Apparently, Lisa's family were magizoologists.

Terry, Anthony, and the long-haired Michael, at the other side of the table, were, somewhat insensitively, discussing whether Pensieves could retrieve memories from early childhood. The aloof blond, Stephen, had disappeared.

Now, who to further consider alliances with?

Terry Boot, Anthony Goldstein, and Michael Corner were intelligent, as Harry had first thought, but they didn't seem very… tactful. He would continue to watch them, but they seemed more book-smart than street-smart. Though, all of them _were_ from magical families.

Su Li and Mandy Brocklehurst, too, evidently had wizarding parentage, but both were a lot like Hermione - too naïve, too trusting, too genuine. Not that those were _bad_ traits, but he doubted either could keep a secret or maintain a false identity for long. Kevin Entwhistle, who seemed to be becoming fast friends with the two girls, was similar: he was too… obvious.

It occurred to Harry that, given the traits of each House, he might find better potential agents in Slytherin. But that could come later. He'd cover his own House, first.

He'd continue to watch Padma Patil and her sister, but only because they were twins, and because he didn't know what her sister - who, through a scan of the hall, had been sorted into Gryffindor - was like. He wasn't incredibly optimistic, though, especially given what Padma had been interested in, in the brief conversation.

Stephen Cornfoot was also unlikely to be of further use, if only because he seemed utterly uninterested in all the other first years, and had made no attempt to conceal that.

Morag MacDougal, and by proxy, Lisa Turpin, seemed the most promising of the group. Not only was there Morag's somewhat unusual composure - Harry thought it likely that she'd been raised in a higher-class and well-connected, perhaps aristocratic family - but both seemed fairly aware of their surroundings. And it had been Morag who'd begun the introductions. Not to mention, she'd appeased Padma without detracting from her own interests.

But Morag and Lisa's conversation, of magical creatures, was not something Harry was familiar with, and he doubted they would want to spend time explaining the topic to him. So… the next best conversation. Terry, Anthony, and Michael's.

"Have you heard of the Muggle psychological experiments, regarding false memories?"

-oOo-

_1 September 1991  
_ _Hogwarts Great Hall  
_ _2200 Hours_

"Who are all the teachers?" Padma asked a nearby older student, drawing the attention of all the first years towards her. She looked pleased at the attention.

The older student, a boy with tawny brown hair in a buzz cut and large-framed glasses, swallowed quickly before responding eagerly. "First years?" Collective nods. "From right to left, we've got Hagrid, who's pretty friendly, though he's the groundskeeper and not an actual professor-"

The half-giant was drinking deeply from his goblet. Perhaps, though, the amount of wine he was drinking was less irresponsible than it looked, because of his larger size.

"-Trelawney, for Divination, though everyone knows she's a fraud-"

A thin woman dressed in a gauzy, spangled shawl, with large glasses that made her eyes appear several times their natural size, poked intensely at her food.

"-Babbling, who's the Ancient Runes professor - she's alright, just talks a lot-"

Indeed, the professor, a middle-aged woman, looked to be the force behind her conversation.

"-Vector, Arithmancy, gives a lot of homework-"

The professor seemed more interested in her food than what Babbling had to say.

"-Median, for Muggle Studies, who has the strangest obsessions-"

The professor, an elderly man with strangely tufted white hair, seemed to have brought his work, some sort of small device.

"-Sinistra, for Astronomy, is a pretty good teacher, but her classes are at midnight-"

A dark-skinned professor aloofly examined the room.

"-Professor Dumbledore, of course, is headmaster-"

The headmaster was cheerfully talking to McGonagall, who sat besides him.

"-McGonagall, who's Transfiguration professor and Head of Gryffindor, is fair but strict-"

She looked amusedly indulgent to whatever Dumbledore was saying.

"-Flitwick, for Charms, our Head of House, is brilliant - you can approach him about anything-"

The professor in question was the polar opposite of Hagrid, standing only about a meter in height. He looked cheerful in his discussion with the witch besides him.

"-Sprout, who teaches Herbology, Hufflepuff's Head, is really understanding, and great about extending deadlines-"

The squat witch who wore a patched hat over her flyaway hair certainly looked understanding.

"-Quirrell taught Muggle Studies before, and he was a pretty good teacher, but this is his first year doing DADA-"

The stammering professor Harry had met at the Leaky Cauldron seemed as nervous as ever, though absorbed in his conversation with the dark-haired wizard besides him.

"-Snape, Head of Slytherin, teaches Potions, and he… favors Slytherins-"

A thin man with sallow skin, a large hooked nose, and shoulder-length black hair scanned the hall, looking displeased.

The older Ravenclaw continued, but, as Harry's gaze met the dark-haired professor's, he felt a strange, sharp pain in his forehead, exactly where his famous, lightning-shaped scar was. Harry barely kept his hand from flying to his head, to touch the spot. Why had it stung? He'd been looking at Snape when it had hurt; what could that mean? His scar had never hurt before - outside of in dreams, but those didn't count - but it was commonly accepted that it was a curse scar, from when Voldemort had tried, and failed, to kill him, as a baby.

So could this professor, this Snape, have something to do with Voldemort?

Surely, though, that was unlikely. This was a _school_ , after all - and certainly not an intelligence organization like CHERUB. Surely, the first priority would be the safety of the students. Surely, if there was a professor who had something to do with the darkest wizard of the past century, they would not be allowed to teach?

Unless… reform? Dumbledore was famous for granting second chances, after all, even sparing Gellert Grindelwald, the dark lord before Voldemort. Perhaps Snape was a reform case; perhaps Dumbledore trusted him. Harry knew that the headmaster of Hogwarts wasn't unintelligent.

Though, had it been Snape, who had caused that strange reaction in Harry's scar? It seemed likely; reviewing the scene in his mind, Harry knew that it had been Snape's gaze he'd met. No one - outside of Quirrell, whose head had been turned to Harry, showing only his purple turban - else had been in Harry's line of vision.

Harry resolved to pay further attention to the man.

Before long, the desserts had disappeared, and Dumbledore was standing again, quieting the hall.

"Ahem - just a few more words now that we are all fed and watered," Dumbledore addressed. "I have a few start-of-term notices to give you.

"First years should note that the forest on the grounds is forbidden to all pupils. And a few of our older students would do well to remember that as well." Dumbledore's gaze flickered to the Gryffindor table, and Harry made a mental note to find the rulebreakers of the House. They could potentially be useful.

"I have also been asked by Mr. Filch, the caretaker, to remind you all that no magic should be used between classes in the corridor." That made it sound like Dumbledore, himself, didn't care much about the use of magic in the corridors. Interesting.

"Quidditch trials will be held in the second week of term. Anyone interested in playing for their House teams should contact Madam Hooch." Anyone… including first years? Hadn't Draco said something to the contrary, though? No, he'd only said that first years weren't allowed _brooms_. Could they compete? Not that Harry was interested in competing, though. It would, doubtless, take up too much time.

"And finally, I must tell you that this year, the third-floor corridor on the right-hand side is out of bounds to everyone who does not wish to die a very painful death." Wait. What?

So much for Harry's conviction that they wouldn't put students in danger, at Hogwarts.

_Why_ did Dumbledore think telling the student body about this corridor of death was a good idea? Hadn't he ever heard of reverse psychology? Or even common sense? Telling students of a _dangerous_ location would only invite the most brazen fools to _investigate_ , and, if what Dumbledore's threat was true, get themselves killed. Why not invent the most innocuous, mundane excuse to keep students away from the corridor?

Why even have a dangerous corridor, in the first place? Was it protecting something? But then, warning the entire school about it would only increase the chances of people entering the corridor, to take whatever was in there, or by accident, or in search of an adventure.

Unless… they _did_ want someone to enter the corridor. Suddenly, it hit Harry. It was a test.

They'd had tests like that, challenges of CHERUB agents' abilities, and Harry was slightly ashamed that it had taken him so long to realize. They wouldn't _actually_ put students in danger - Hogwarts was the future of the wizarding community of Britain, of course they wouldn't. It was a test, for the best and brightest of Hogwarts students, and the first part of the competition was realizing that fact.

The blood-red stone. Of course. It was hidden, in that corridor, the prize to the competition. That was why Hagrid, probably the most conspicuous of the Hogwarts staff, had been sent to retrieve it - because it wasn't really that valuable. Suddenly, Harry wished he'd kept the rock, rather than returning it to Hagrid. But no, he'd compete fairly. Because he _would_ win.

What better way to build a reputation at Hogwarts?

-oOo-

_1 September 1991_  
_CHERUB Headquarters  
_ _2200 Hours_

" _Alohomora_ ," Arnold Peasegood murmured, quietly entering the Muggle compound. It was nighttime, and the campus outside nearly deserted. He followed the instructions he'd been given, to the largest building, using the Unlocking Charm again to open those doors as well. The hallways were deserted - nearly.

"Hey! What are you-"

" _Confundo_ ," he said. The Muggle who'd been hit, a teenage girl who looked about sixteen, blinked confusedly at him. "Could you point me to the, uh, chairwoman's office." She obliged, still looking at him confused. "Thanks. _Obliviate_." She wouldn't remember seeing him, tomorrow morning.

Arnold crept down the hall to the office, whose lights were still on - the chairwoman was, evidently working late. " _Alohomora_ ," he murmured again. He prepared himself - he'd been told that this Muggle had sharp reflexes that had even taken Minerva McGonagall off guard. Of course, a quick Confundus or Stupefy could take care of that - McGonagall had been unable to perform either spell before the Muggle had drawn her gun. With a fast movement, he burst through the door. " _Stupefy_ ," he whispered, aiming at where he assumed the desk would be.

His aim was true. The Muggle woman was frozen in her tensed, standing position - no doubt, she'd heard him in the hall. " _Obliviate_."

Arnold left the campus humming quietly to himself, his job complete. The Muggle chairwoman wouldn't remember anything about magic, and would only have vague memories of Harry Potter leaving their organization to attend a private boarding school. He was, actually, mildly disappointed - from McGonagall's description, he'd expected more of a challenge in Obliviating these Muggle spies. Oh well; Arnold knew that the more 'boring' jobs were safer; less risk of breaking the Statute of Secrecy.

Of course, he had no idea of the two others on CHERUB campus, both of whom were currently asleep, and both of whom knew about magic.

Though only one would really be a problem.


	6. Conversations and Qualifications

**Disclaimer: Harry Potter, CHERUB, and associated universes belong to J.K. Rowling and Robert Muchamore, respectively, and not me.**

* * *

**Chapter 5: Conversations and Qualifications**

_2 September 1981  
_ _Hogwarts  
_ _0815 Hours_

Of the first year Slytherin students, it was Draco Malfoy, the weedy-looking fidgeting boy, the honey-blonde girl with an intelligent gaze, and, Harry supposed, the haughty-looking Blaise Zabini, who'd drawn his attention initially, but he needed more information to make better decisions. Thus, as Harry watched the other students gradually trickle into the greenhouse for Herbology from the seat he'd chosen at the center of the long row, he subtly drew the attention of Draco, who he'd noticed had been at the center of the Slytherin social structure, pushing him to find a seat besides Harry. Because, as Harry had noticed in earlier interactions, it wasn't only that he wanted to find out more about the blond boy. Draco wanted to analyze Harry, too.

"Hello again, Potter," Draco sneered, though there was no malice in his tone.

"Malfoy," Harry greeted politely. "I'm afraid I didn't catch the rest of your names, though," he added, to the others who, as he'd expected, had followed to their station.

"Malfoy," Harry greeted politely. "I'm afraid I didn't catch the rest of your names, though," he added, to the others who, as he'd expected, had followed to their station.

"Well, you know Crabbe and Goyle," Draco said, nodding to the two bodyguard-like boys. "This is Blaise Zabini," the haughty, dark boy, "Millicent Bulstrode," a square-jawed girl with black hair, "and-"

" _Draco_ ," a pug-faced, dark-haired girl hissed in a sort of warning. Harry raised an eyebrow, and she turned to him, smiling sweetly. "I'm Pansy Parkinson," she said, her tone proud.

"A pleasure to meet you all." Harry wanted to say more, but Pansy's warning reminded him of what Draco had said, on the train. He couldn't be seen as Harry's friend, so long as Harry remained allies with Muggle-borns like Hermione; Harry supposed that was to appease his family and whatever other blood supremacists who might be watching. So he waited.

Pansy was the first to speak. "I hear you sat with a Mudbl-" a quick jab by Blaise stopped her from finishing the word, and she corrected, "Muggle-born on the train."

Harry nodded. "Hermione Granger." She'd been sorted into Gryffindor - he'd seen her besides Neville during the feast - but he didn't mention that, which would only be another strike against her, and by proxy, him.

"So you're _friends_?" Pansy pressed.

"Allies," Harry answered. "Despite her Muggle origins, I have found her to be rather useful, and I certainly don't believe in losing any potential opportunities based on differences in ideology." Just as he'd told Draco, on the train. Though he found it unlikely that everyone would understand his reasoning.

And, visibly, some didn't. Pansy sniffed haughtily and looked away, while Millicent frowned at him angrily. Vincent and Gregory looked at him as though confused, though he was fairly certain Draco made their decisions for them, anyway. Neither Draco nor Blaise showed any visible reaction - the former made a small movement that might have been a fidget, and the latter merely looked at Harry as though filing that piece of information away for further reference.

"And I would caution you against setting three-quarters of the school against you, with careless statements," he added. It didn't help; Pansy's expression turned, if possible, frostier, and Millicent's frown turned into a glare. Internally, Harry sighed. So much for an alliance with these two.

Though it was clear from their reactions that the two girls were headed down the same dark path as their parents. So Harry wasn't that eager to ally with them. Gathering intel on their parents through them wasn't his primary objective, and he'd value usefulness above any dubious connections.

"Settle down, settle down, class!" It was the professor at the front of the room, the stout little witch Sprout, whose timing was so perfect, it was almost amusing. Though the Slytherins around him obviously wanted to say more, they remained quiet, as the conversation around the greenhouse dimmed.

Sprout beamed at them. "Welcome to Herbology!"

She introduced herself and the class for a few minutes, before diving in to the practical portion of the lesson: planting seeds of asphodel, a 'member of the lily family whose roots can be used for potions', apparently.

And it was then that the girl to the other side of him, the intelligent honey-blonde who Harry had been intentionally not granting more than a few curious stares, spoke.

"You aren't likely to win many friends with your current path."

"On the contrary," Harry replied, as though continuing a conversation between friends, "I hope to win many _allies_ with my current path. But I won't take sides until I have more information."

"Even so, they didn't appreciate your warning. Not when it implied that you thought yourself as wiser than them."

He _did_ think himself as wiser than them, but shrugged. "If they felt that way, perhaps they were not allies worth having."

"How Slytherin of you," the girl appraised. "Yet you're a Ravenclaw."

"The Sorting Hat did give me the option; however, in the end, it was decided that Ravenclaw would suit better."

"By who?"

Harry found himself smiling - she'd caught what he hadn't said - and changed the subject, rather obviously. "I'm afraid I didn't catch your name?"

"I'm Daphne Greengrass."

He nodded. "A pleasure to meet you."

"Likewise."

A question was nearly burning up inside him. "My earlier statement didn't drive you away?"

"Are you suggesting that my family, as you said, differs in ideology?" Daphne returned, a gleam in her eyes. Harry could have cursed. A stupid mistake - because he wasn't used to playing this game for so long, but that was no excuse.

"Don't we all?" he asked rhetorically, careful not to let the response sound too defensive. "We all have our own opinions, after all. Nonetheless, I know that the Greengrass family is…" How to phrase it? "A very esteemed and well-respected one, that must be seen in a certain light."

Daphne raised an eyebrow, but looked pleased all the same. "We are renowned for being neutral, and have been neutral in nearly all matters and conflicts, including the past wizarding war."

Harry would respect that commitment… even though it was decisions to stay neutral and to let others solve the problem that let villains win. Personally, Harry could never stand to the side or stay neutral, not when there was still evil in the world, not while people were still hurt due to others' actions.

He wondered if that neutrality would keep him from recruiting Daphne to his intelligence organization. But, surely, even the most neutral of families would want to gather intel about others. Perhaps it would be even more necessary for a neutral family to know as much as possible about others, without definite allies and enemies.

Though he didn't know too much about politics.

"You must know a lot about the other families, the other students, then," Harry said instead. If he could find out more about the other students, _and_ analyze Daphne Greengrass himself, he'd consider the herbology class very productive.

"And what made you come to that conclusion?" Daphne asked, amused.

"Merely the thought that a neutral family must know a lot about their potential allies and enemies, and that your family must be quite well-versed in such politics, to be so respected."

"Mmm," she responded, still not giving more. "But what makes you think that I would tell you any information I might know?"

"Are you saying you don't know it, then? No, forget that. Perhaps I expected too much," Harry said, turning his attention back to his asphodel.

He could feel Daphne's glare on his back as she spoke, her voice biting. "You were speaking to Draco Malfoy, Blaise Zabini, Pansy Parkinson, Vincent Crabbe, Gregory Goyle, and Millicent Bulstrode, earlier - and those are their names, in descending order of family importance. All except Bulstrode are purebloods; though formerly an old pure-blood family, recent generations have both squandered whatever fortunes they previously possessed, and lost respect through their marrying of Muggles and Muggle-borns. The Bulstrodes commonly work within the Ministry - Bulstrode's parents are part of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. The Malfoys, meanwhile, have kept both their fortunes and their pure bloodline, as well as their prominent influence, especially within the Ministry, and the Minister himself. The Zabini family - though it's really only Zabini and his mother, here in Britain - is Italian, and though Lady Zabini has had seven husbands, six of whom have died of mysterious circumstances, the Zabinis are well connected, both in magical Britain and in Italy. The Parkinsons, meanwhile, are old and wealthy and powerful, but not the best at making decisions, nor getting out of the sticky situations their poor decisions put them in. The Crabbes and the Goyles have basically done whatever the Malfoys tell them to do, for the past three generations, in part because they have nearly no ideas of their own, and in part because the Malfoys pay their Wizengamot dues and whatever other fees they find themselves incurring.

"Around the room, there's Theodore Nott, of another Noble and Most Ancient House, whose father is reclusive to general wizarding society and whose mother died about five years ago; Abigail Runcorn, who's a pure-blood with family members high in the Ministry, though they're not an old family; and Tracey Davis, a half-blood who won't speak much of her background."

The words were spoken rapidly in a low hiss, as though Daphne were reciting something she'd memorized long ago. Harry found himself surprised, and delighted, at the sheer quantity of what she knew, though he got the feeling she knew much more, about the students themselves, in addition to their families.

From this, it would seem that Daphne Greengrass would make a brilliant agent. If he could convince her to join.

"I'm impressed," Harry admitted. "And the Ravenclaws?"

"Shouldn't I be asking _you_ that?" Daphne retorted, her frigid mask returning as she, no doubt, realized how she'd been manipulated into revealing what she knew.

Harry shrugged. "I was not the one who grew up in this society."

"Then where _did_ you grow up?"

He merely smiled at her, as though asking whether she really thought he would answer that. Daphne huffed, annoyed, just as Sprout called for their attention, speaking for a few minutes before dismissing the class a minute early.

Inconspicuously, Harry joined Morag Macdougal and Lisa Turpin as they left the classroom… and found them discussing magical creatures. Again. This time, it was which magical creature they thought was the 'best'.

He was just debating whether to enter their conversation when Lisa seemed to notice him, calling out. "Potter! What do you think?"

"Sorry?"

"Which is the better magical creature, phoenixes or demiguises?"

"…Define better," Harry said. He knew what both were, from the textbook _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them_ , but not exactly enough to form an opinion. And 'better' was a subjective word, anyway.

"What?"

"He means, what do you mean by better?" Morag told her. "Because creatures can be 'better' in many different ways. Better as in more likeable? More powerful? More useful?"

"Why are you asking _me_? You were the one who brought up the topic, Morag!"

"Well, _actually_ , I was the one who brought up demiguises. You were the one who started arguing that phoenixes were 'better'."

"Because they obviously _are_. It's a _phoenix_ Professor Dumbledore owns, and not a demiguise."

"That only proves one wizard's preference, though," Harry pointed out. Lisa rolled her eyes at him.

"Yes, but their tears have healing powers! And they're immortal! And they can carry immensely heavy loads! And sing soul-touching songs!"

"Do you even know what that means?" Morag asked drily. "Meanwhile, demiguises can, as you would say..." She cleared her throat, then adopted an overly high-pitched tone. "They can turn invisible! And see the future! And are used in the runic alphabet! And have a peacable temperament! And have hair that is highly prised in invisibility cloaks!"

"That's not necessarily a good thing, for the species," said Harry.

"Yeah! Why would using their hair, and thus _killing_ them, be a good trait of demiguises?" Lisa agreed.

By the time they reached the doors of the library - it was a free period, and of course the majority of the Ravenclaw first years had gone directly to the library - Harry had decided that neither Lisa nor Morag would likely be interested in joining him. Both were determined to work with magical creatures, in magizoology, though Morag was also fascinated by Healing, and Lisa also wanted to write a book, like her hero Newt Scamander. Either way, not the best recruits.

After all, a desire to help the world and an interest in gathering information was vital in working in intelligence.

Though he'd still work on them. _If_ he could persuade them to join his intelligence organization, then he had no doubt that they could be helpful.

Still contemplating the other students, Harry entered the Hogwarts library. He stared. And then, he began to grin.

It was _brilliant_.

Learning and reading had always, for Harry, served the greater purpose of discovering more information that could further his goals, but he supposed he was Ravenclaw as well as Slytherin, for he couldn't help the thrill that came from seeing the library, with its seemingly endless shelves, all bursting with books and knowledge, just waiting to be uncovered.

He loved libraries.

Now, what was next on his reading list?

-oOo-

_2 September 1991  
_ _Great Hall  
_ _1130 Hours_

"Harry! There you are!" Harry was pleased to see Hermione Granger running towards him, as she entered the Great Hall for lunch. Pleased, but also slightly annoyed, as he watched the other Gryffindor first years glare at the girl. Had she _already_ managed to make enemies, and in her own House?

"Hello, Hermione," he greeted warmly. "Congratulations on your sorting." She'd said she'd wanted to be in Gryffindor, but he hadn't expected the Sorting Hat to actually put her there.

"Thanks, you too!" she said cheerfully. "Oh, and how have your classes been? You had Herbology, right? With Professor Sprout? I heard that she's a pretty good teacher - what did you do in her class?"

"She explained her class a bit, and then we planted asphodel," Harry answered, somewhat surprised that she'd given him the time to answer.

"Asphodel? Oh, that was in our textbooks, wasn't it? It's used in a sleeping potion, and in that healing potion, the Wiggenweld Potion. But isn't it fascinating, how asphodel can be used both magically and non-magically? I did some research, at home, and found that it's also used to treat skin conditions and as a cough remedy, for Muggles."

Harry nodded in agreement. "And you have to wonder, given its cultural significance, what role magic might have played in that."

"Oh, you mean how the ancient Greeks associated it with death and the underworld, and thought that it was sacred to that goddess, Persephone?"

"Yes. Perhaps that has something to do with its usage in the sleeping potion, the Draught of Living Death."

Hermione seemed fascinated by the idea, and Harry wondered again how she wasn't a Ravenclaw. "I never thought of that! But yes, that does seem possible… Then, could there be other things in Muggle culture impacted by magic?"

"It seems plausible - the Statute of Secrecy was only instituted in the late 1600s, after all."

"1689," Hermione corrected absentmindedly. Harry stared, and it took her a few moments to realize that. "What?"

"Do you have a photographic memory?"

She blushed. "Actually, there are some that say that true photographic memories don't exist, since outside of that experiment with the scientist Charles Stromeyer III and Elizabeth, it has never been proven that people can have photographic memories. And I don't remember things as images, anyway. Facts - interesting facts - just… stick to me."

Still, quite a useful trait.

Hermione, obviously uncomfortable at his attention, switched topics abruptly. "We had Defense Against the Dark Arts this morning, with Professor Quirrell, and the Hufflepuffs. It… well, it's only the first day, right? He was probably just nervous, since it's his first year teaching DADA, though I heard he was the Muggle Studies professor before. I think I'd like to take Muggle Studies, when I'm a third year, though I haven't entirely decided what classes I want to take. All of them sound so interesting!"

"One moment. You wish to take Muggle Studies?" Hermione nodded. "But you're a Muggle-born."

"Yes, but I think it would be fascinating to study Muggles from a wizarding perspective!"

For the third time, Harry wondered how Hermione wasn't a Ravenclaw. This time, he said it out loud.

"Well, the Sorting Hat did consider putting me in Ravenclaw, but it decided on Gryffindor, in the end," Hermione told him cheerfully. He smirked - that was nearly the exact sentence he'd told Daphne, earlier. "Er… Where do you want to sit?" Harry glanced at the long tables across the hall, which were all, mostly, segregated by House.

A bit of movement on the side caught his eye, and he recognized Ron Weasley, surrounded by some other Gryffindor, waving to catch his attention. And thought they would have Transfiguration together, after lunch, there was no guarantee of time to talk, as there had been in Herbology. So he shrugged. "Perhaps with the Gryffindors? I haven't met them yet." Hermione pursed her lips, but nodded, leading the way to the group of Gryffindor first years.

The conversation, which seemed to be an explanation of Quidditch for the Muggle-borns, halted as Harry and Hermione drew near. He recognized Neville Longbottom and Ron Weasley, as well as the kind-looking black boy, Dean Thomas, and the girl who'd sauntered to the stool, Sophie Roper, from the sorting, and Padma Patil's twin sister.

"Hi Harry!" Ron said enthusiastically. Harry was certain it wasn't an accident that he was ignoring Hermione.

"Hello Ron, Neville, though I'm afraid I haven't met the rest of you. May we sit here?" Harry greeted.

"Sure!" Ron exclaimed. The others echoed the sentiment.

"It's a pleasure to see you again. I'm Harry Potter, and this is Hermione, as you no doubt already know. And you are?"

"Seamus Finnegan," said a sandy-haired boy. He grinned at Harry. "I've heard a lot about you, but I'm gonna assume that's all not true, 'cuz no one said you'd be a Ravenclaw."

"Oh?" What had they expected, Gryffindor? Since that was the House his parents had been in?

"Dean Thomas," Dean Thomas said. "My parents are Muggles, so I can't say I've heard of you before."

"I'm Lavender Brown," introduced a girl with curly blonde hair and a cheerful smile. She giggled nervously at the group's attention.

"My name's Parvati Patil," said Padma's sister. "My sister's in your House."

"Padma." Parvati nodded.

"Sophie Roper," said Sophie Roper brightly.

"And I'm Liliya Moon," said the last girl, who had long dark hair and olive-toned skin.

"Well, it's nice to meet you all," Harry told them earnestly.

There was silence for a moment, before Seamus spoke. "D'you follow Quidditch, Harry? Which team?"

But Harry was shaking his head, a small smile on his face. "I'm afraid Quidditch was not a huge part of my childhood, growing up," he told them. A non-existent part, more like.

Seamus and Ron gaped at him for a long moment before Ron spoke. "Don't worry!" he said cheerfully. "We'll make a Quidditch fan out of you! And you, Dean!"

"I still think football's better," Dean mumbled.

"You haven't even seen Quidditch yet!" Seamus protested.

"And you've never seen football!"

"Well, honestly, how interesting _can_ it be? There's only one ball!" argued Ron. That, it seemed, had been the wrong thing to say.

"Only one ball? _Only one ball_? Football's the best sport in the world, and you're concerned about how many balls it has?" Obviously a rhetorical question, and Dean didn't wait for a response. "It's easy to understand, there's near constant gameplay, it's fun to watch, and it's just a beautiful game! It's football!"

"And it's Quidditch!" Seamus mimicked. "It's on brooms! There are four balls, the Quaffle, the Bludgers, and the Snitch, so it's a lot more interesting!"

"But the rules don't make any sense!"

"They _do_!" said Ron. "What part of 10-points-per-Quaffle-scored and 150-points-and-the-game-over-if-the-Snitch-is-caught doesn't make any sense?"

"That!" Dean said. "The fact that one player both ends the game _and_ pretty much determines whether a team wins or loses!"

"Not necessarily!" Ron argued quickly. "If the other team's 150 points ahead-"

"And how often does that happen?"

"A lot!" said Seamus. Dean looked disbelievingly at him.

"It actually does," Lavender confirmed. "I mean, from the few Quidditch matches I've gone to…"

"Usually in the professional games," said Neville, somewhat nervously.

"And then there's leagues and tournaments!" Ron added. "Since you add the number of points a team scores to find out how well they do in a tournament, when the Snitch is caught matters a lot, and so does how many points the Chasers score!"

"But that doesn't take into account recreational games," Harry pointed out thoughtfully. Dean grinned at him, evidently glad that someone else was taking his side. "And then, couldn't the two worst teams in the league agree to not catch the Snitch until both had accumulated high scores? That would defeat the purpose of the tournament."

"No team would do that!" protested Seamus.

"Yeah! That's just not _right_ ," Ron agreed. Harry blinked. Of course, any good, righteous person would never do such a thing… but he knew from experience that many people weren't _good_ or _righteous_. If given the chance, he knew that many would cheat and do wrong.

Still, he let the idea slide with a shrug. "My first point remains."

"…What?" asked Seamus.

"Recreational games!" Dean told him. "Ones that aren't part of leagues."

"Well, no one really takes those seriously," said Ron.

"But they still _exist_ ," said Dean. "And what about championships and stuff?"

"Well, it's all just a game, anyway," interjected Hermione. "I mean, it doesn't really matter _that_ much, does it?"

Harry was beginning to understand how Hermione had made the entire group of Gryffindor first years hate her in the space of a day; the expressions of Ron, Seamus, and Dean, as well as, to a lesser degree, Lavender, Neville, and Parvati, told him that the statement bordered on sacrilegious.

" _Doesn't matter_? It's Quidditch!" Ron said in a strangled voice.

"Which is just a game," Hermione said again. She looked around the table, seeking support, but evidently found none. "I mean, it's not like it's life or death."

"It might as well be!" Seamus declared fervently. "It's _Quidditch_!"

Hermione stared at him, concern and disbelief in her gaze. "…You need to sort out your priorities," she said at last.

-oOo-

_2 September 1991  
_ _Transfiguration Classroom  
_ _1230 Hours_   


Double Transfiguration, with the Gryffindors, came after lunch. As Harry had predicted, there was not much time to talk - McGonagall lectured for the first hour on the basics on transfiguration, and they spent the second hour attempting to change a match into a needle.

It took Harry exactly five minutes and ten seconds - three attempts - to complete the assignment; he'd first not drawn enough power, then spent too long on the visualization.

He couldn't understand why everyone else seemed to struggle so. The transformation, match-to-needle, was literally the first practical example in _A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration_? The theory was simple enough to understand, at least in Harry's opinion, and he doubted that he was _that_ far ahead of the other students. And the rest was simply a matter of visualization, of the match morphing into a needle, and focus of magical power. Sure, he'd had experience in focusing his magic, back when he'd thought of it as his 'strangeness', but wouldn't the others, as well? Especially those raised in the wizarding world, who knew of the existence of magic, before attending Hogwarts?

Harry couldn't say he was particularly surprised, though, when, twenty-two minutes after seeing his needle and adopting a determined glint in her eyes, Hermione succeeded in transfiguring her match. They were the only two finished, by the end of the class.

As he experimented with transforming the additional matches McGonagall had provided into different materials, Harry considered the group of Gryffindors. Who was worth allying with?

Hermione, almost certainly. She was intelligent, had strong values, and, as this Transfiguration class showed, was at least somewhat talented with magic. Only… there was the problem of her sociability, or lack thereof. Even now, as she bossily corrected Liliya Moon, who sat besides her, he could see the gap between her and the other Gryffindors widening. If she couldn't befriend a target, she couldn't exactly be of much use. Not to mention the downsides of allying with her; the distaste of many pure-bloods for Muggle-borns was not something Harry wanted to shove in his potential allies' faces.

But the only other Gryffindor who'd stood out to Harry was Neville, and the boy was too shy and unsure of himself- though, now that Harry thought more about it, that could be the perfect disguise. Neville was unassuming and easily overlooked, at the moment… But he'd only be effective if that shyness was a guise, and not his true personality.

So Hermione and Neville, from Gryffindor; Morag and Lisa, from Ravenclaw; and Draco, Blaise, and Daphne, from Slytherin.

Only the Hufflepuffs left, before he would start looking into the older students.

The older students. Right. Six years' worth, with an average of fifty students per year, so three hundred students. Suddenly, Harry's task was looking enormous.

How was he going to do it all, _and_ keep up with his coursework, _and_ learn as much as he possibly could, _and_ look into that mysterious third-floor corridor and blood-red stone?

But he pushed the thought aside. He had all year, after all.


	7. Student Safety and Well-Being

**Disclaimer: Harry Potter, CHERUB, and associated universes belong to J.K. Rowling and Robert Muchamore, respectively, and not me.**

* * *

**Chapter 6: Student Safety and Well-Being**

_3 September 1991  
_ _Headmaster's Office  
_ _0800 Hours_

Harry Potter. Albus gave a long sigh as he reread the overtly hostile letter from Arabella Figg, for the dozenth time. How could he have been so careless? How could he not have realized that Lily and James's son had disappeared, nearly _ten years_ ago, if Minerva's report was correct? How could he have let the child be put in an _orphanage_ (like another orphan… so many _mistakes_ )? How could he have trusted Arabella's reports, when he _knew_ how uninterested in human - both magical and Muggle - affairs she was? And how could he have put Harry on the Dursleys' doorstep and believed that his last remaining relatives would take him in?

He didn't blame Petunia for what she, evidently, had done: drop her nephew off at the nearest orphanage, then flee the country with her family. Not after he, and the magical world, had failed her. He still remembered the traumatized young woman at the Evans' funeral; Lily's grief and horror at what her parents and her sister had been through; Petunia's vow that she would _never_ have _anything_ to do with magic ever again. To this day, he still had no idea how the Death Eaters had found the Evans, had broken into the house that Petunia had been visiting, and had tortured the Evans and Petunia Dursley. It had only been a stroke of luck, Order member Emmaline Vance passing by the Muggle home, that had saved Petunia's life.

He shouldn't have assumed that any sense of familial obligation to the son of her deceased sister would override Petunia's experiences and fear for her family's safety and vow.

So the Dursleys had disappeared, and a new family had moved to Number Four, Privet Drive, coincidentally one with two boys around the same age as Harry and Dudley Dursley. And Arabella, who had seemed to be the perfect one to watch young Harry, with her unwillingness to do any more than she absolutely had to, since Harry wasn't to know of his fame, and Squib nature, to live in the Muggles world, had arrived to Privet Drive on November 2nd, and had assumed that the family was the Dursleys.

Still, Albus supposed that some things could be salvaged, that there were some things to be grateful for. First, that Harry _had_ grown up in the Muggle world, unaware of his fame. From Minerva's accounts, too, Albus could tell that Harry didn't feel entitled to the fame, to his title - he'd assumed, correctly, that his survival hadn't had much to do with him. And second, that Harry _did_ seem willing to save the world.

Because, somehow, Harry Potter had become a Muggle child spy.

That… Even without his Arithmancy NEWT, Albus could have told you that the odds of a top-secret Muggle child intelligence agency choosing _Harry Potter_ was infinitesimal.

And yet, it had happened.

In some ways, Albus supposed it was a good thing. Not only would Harry be better prepared to face Voldemort, since, according to a Muggle book on espionage that he'd picked up to better understand the child, intelligence agents had keen observation skills, good intuition, and adaptability, all of which could be important for Harry to defeat Voldemort. But… Albus also knew, very well in the case of his own spy, that such agents' instincts made them more alert to guidance, which would be worse for his plans. More importantly, though, he'd also read that spies operated on the greyer side of moral, breaking some laws to protect more major ones. And that was bad.

Because Harry Potter, the only chance they had at defeating Voldemort once and for all, could _not_ turn to the dark side. If he did, then all was lost.

-oOo-

_5 September 1991  
_ _Third-Floor Corridor  
_ _0730 Hours_

For the life of him, Harry couldn't remember the Unlocking Charm.

It was _first year_ curriculum! One of the simplest spells in the Charms textbook! One he'd even done, with accidental magic, in CHERUB- oh. Of course.

He didn't actually have to know the spell, did he?

 _Unlock_! he thought commandingly, harnessing his magic like he'd done in Transfiguration, and some of the other classes he'd had over the past few days, and throwing it at the lock. He pictured the lock turning, slowly at first, then faster, until it snapped back. _Unlo_ -

Footsteps behind him halted his train of thought.

"Well, well," said a derisive voice behind him. "What have we here?"

Harry turned to face him, an innocent expression already in place. "Mr. Filch! There you are!"

The caretaker only sneered at him, stroking his cat, Mrs. Norris, who mimicked the expression, in his arms. "Don't try to fool me, _boy_. You're trying to break into the third-floor corridor!"

"The… third-floor corridor?" Harry asked, worry seeping into his expression. "Is… is _that_ where we are presently, Mr. Filch?"

Filch scoffed. "As if you don't know! I saw what you were doing, boy! You were trying to open the door!"

"That's where Peeves said you were!" Harry protested. "I was looking for you, because I heard that someone was to pull a prank in the Great Hall during breakfast. And I saw Mr. Peeves and he, kindly, told me where you were!"

"A likely story," Filch said, his sneer still showing his disbelief, though Harry thought there was some uncertainty in it, too. "Alright, then, what was this _prank_?"

It was lucky that Suriyawong had actually pulled off a prank that could fit the situation, because Harry was terrible at brainstorming prank ideas. "They were to spike all the pumpkin juice served at breakfast," he told Filch worriedly.

The man scoffed again. "With?"

Harry opened his mouth to answer, then hesitated. Suriyawong had spiked their food with a laxative - which Harry had, thankfully, avoided, because he'd noticed the prankster's strange behavior - but, in further contemplation, he doubted Filch would care if the student body suddenly was afflicted with diarrhea. His eyes fell upon Mrs. Norris, who was glaring at him from her perch in Filch's arms. "Some sort of potion that transforms people into dogs," he exclaimed. "Could you imagine? The Great Hall, filled with dogs of all shapes and sizes?"

" _D-dogs_?" Filch repeated, his demeanor suddenly reminiscent of the Defense teacher, Quirrell, 's. "We- we have to stop that! Where are they planning this? Tell me, boy!"

"The kitchens, I think," Harry said nervously. "I don't know… they might already have completed the task. Breakfast _has_ begun, has it not?"

He allowed himself a smirk as Filch hurried away, along with Mrs. Norris, doing a weird sort of skipping in his run, then turned his attention back to the door. _Unlock_ , he thought fiercely again. He tried the handle.

It opened.

Harry slipped inside.

He heard the growling first, before his eyes adjusted to the dim light and he saw the dog. The three-headed dog.

His first thought was that this wasn't one of the eighty-one creatures in _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them_.

His second was that this was somewhat ironic, given what he'd just told Filch.

His third was that he should probably defend himself, because the dog was eyeing him, with all six eyes, as though he were prey - which, in its eyes, he probably was - and crouching, ready to pounce.

He drew his gun, just as the dog lunged. Harry dodged to the side, aimed… and hesitated, just for a moment.

Shooting the dog wasn't the best course of action, was it?

So, as the dog lunged towards him a second time, he opened the door a crack and slipped out of the room, instead.

Luckily, the corridor outside was empty. Or, perhaps, it was predictably, since he _was_ just outside the forbidden corridor. Either way, there was no one to see the gun in his hands, which he hid quickly in his robes again… or the slight smile on his lips. Because it had been _so long_ since he'd been in danger like that, and such situations were always exhilarating.

That was a common trait, with CHERUB agents, he knew.

He made his way down the stairs, then to the grounds, for his morning run - he couldn't fathom why Hogwarts had no physical activity classes - and began to dissect what had happened.

First: how to get past the three-headed dog. Killing it, or otherwise injuring it, wasn't the best course of action, and he was glad he'd thought of that before he'd shot the dog. Not only was it doubtful that Hogwarts would condone the murder of the dog, but it would also grant an advantage to all the competitors, including Harry's opponents - whoever else was trying to reach the blood-red stone. Moreover, there was likely some sort of loophole they were supposed to find, to get past the dog, because this was a competition of ability and intelligence, not the capacity to kill.

Which meant, second: finding that loophole to get past the dog.

Wasn't it convenient, then, that there were two students in his year whose specialties were magical creatures? Including ones not found in the first year textbooks, like the 'swooping evil' they'd been discussing at the feast?

So, third: going through the trapdoor the dog had been guarding, to whatever obstacles were next.

His smile grew wider at the thought, because classes and alliance-scouting had really been starting to get boring.

Game on.

-oOo-

_5 September 1991  
_ _Charms Classroom  
_ _0920 Hours_

Harry found the perfect opportunity to speak with Morag and Lisa during Charms. The tiny Professor Flitwick had finished a few minutes early and given the class time to work on their homework - or talk, as many of the students had chosen to do instead, including the two Ravenclaws.

"I saw a griffin once, when we were in Greece," Lisa was saying. "Mum and Dad brought me and my sister along, as a sort of vacation, since they needed to be there anyway, to study different cultures of the merpeople around the world, so of _course_ , they had to go to Greece."

"Oh, right, I've heard of that," said Morag. "Isn't Greece the origin of the merpeople? Or so the myths say?"

Lisa nodded. "The origin of _many_ magical creatures, according to myths."

"Really?" Harry asked, entering the conversation. "What other creatures?"

"Well, there's the merpeople, and the griffins," answered Lisa.

"And the centaurs," Morag added. "And the hippocampi, and the winged horses - the pegasus -, and the chimeras, and the hydras, and the manticores, and the basilisks…"

"I think they mention the phoenixes as well?" Lisa said. "Though I don't think phoenixes originated in Greece."

"What about Cerberus? The three-headed dog that guards the entrance to the Underworld? Does that exist?" Harry asked.

"Right! That!" said Lisa, the enthusiasm apparent in her expression. "I've never seen a three-headed dog before, but I've heard that they're great guard dogs - sort of like in the mythology."

"They're very vicious," Morag agreed, "and they'll protect whatever they've been tasked to protect, and attack anyone who tries to get past them."

"Their skin is a lot like a troll's, or a giant's," Lisa added. "Most spells get reflected back."

"Any weaknesses?" The moment after he spoke, Harry realized how obvious the statement was - but neither Lisa nor Morag seemed to notice.

"I don't know," Lisa admitted. "Not that I've heard of - no obvious ones, that is."

"Maybe the fact that there are three heads?" Morag suggested. "Sort of like runespoors?"

"The heads tend to attack each other, don't they?" said Harry, remembering the passage in the textbook.

"Yeah…" Lisa said thoughtfully. "But I don't think the heads are distinctive, like a runespoor's, where the left head's the planner, the middle's the dreamer, and the right's the critic…"

"But that might just be because there are Parselmouths who can speak to snakes, including runespoors, and not anyone - that we know of - who can speak to dogs," Morag countered.

After a moment, Lisa shrugged. "I guess. I think it's just assumed that dogs, including three-headed dogs, aren't that intelligent."

"Hasn't it been proven that dogs have their own language, though?" Harry said. "And if they can be trained, even to guard…"

"Yeah," Morag agreed. "I think that's rubbish, that dogs are ' _less intelligent_ ' than snakes."

"I completely agree," Lisa assured. "I mean, the Ministry's rubbish about classifying a _lot_ of things, _especially_ magical creatures. 'Beasts' and 'beings' - I mean, it's just _insulting_! And the fact that centaurs and merpeople are classified as 'beasts'…"

"That's by their own insistence, though," said Morag. "It's because they _want_ to manage their own affairs, without any wizarding interference, and because they objected to some of the other 'beings'. And it's even more insulting if wizards _force_ them to accept specific categories."

Lisa shrugged, though it was clear from her expression that she wasn't satisfied by the answer. "Still, ' _beast_ ' is an insulting way to describe them - _and_ , it gives the wrong sort of impression to most wizards, like they're some sort of violent, untamable _thing_!"

"Some 'beasts' can be violent," said Morag. "Lots of creatures that could be called 'beings', intelligence-wise, are 'beasts' because they can't overcome their violent natures. And there _are_ untamable creatures - that's the entire XXXXX range."

"But that's only a _small_ portion of the creatures that exist!" Lisa exclaimed. "So if we ever want wizards to start treating these creatures with the respect they deserve, they _can't_ just be 'beasts' to us!"

Harry tuned out the rest of their conversation, which he could already tell would only be an argument over 'beast' and 'being' classifications, to consider what they'd told him. Which was practically nothing. And he didn't trust them enough to ask them to look further into the matter for him… which meant that he'd either have to ask an expert, or do the research himself.

 _Were_ there even other experts he could turn to? The Care of Magical Creatures professor? He hadn't caught who that was, when the older Ravenclaw had introduced the professors, because of the strange pain in his scar - and he hadn't had Potions with the dark-haired and hook-nosed Professor Snape yet, nor been able to catch the man's gaze during mealtimes, to investigate that pain further. But he had no idea, thus, of the Care of Magical Creatures professor's personality - whether he'd be suspicious, if Harry inquired, or whether he'd tell Harry anything important.

Especially since it was likely that the Magical Creatures professor was the one who'd put the three-headed dog in that corridor. It was a creature, after all, which would be what that professor specialized in. But… did that mean, then, that the other obstacles would have something to do with the other classes taught at Hogwarts? Perhaps each professor, of all twelve subjects taught, would have some sort of obstacle… which put Harry at a disadvantage, compared to the older students, because he took only the seven mandatory classes.

So… he added books on Divination, Arithmancy, Ancient Runes, and Muggle Studies to his reading list. Though - unlike Hermione - he doubted he'd need to take, or read into, Muggle Studies.

-oOo-

_5 September 1991  
_ _Potions Classroom  
_ _1520 Hours_

Harry wondered absentmindedly, as he watched the various students trickle into the room in the dungeons where Potions was held, why said class was literally the only one the Ravenclaws had with the Hufflepuffs. Was that simply a coincidence? Or… since classes where the Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs were together would also be the classes with Gryffindors and Slytherins, could it be the general antagonism between those two Houses that kept the two from being scheduled together, whenever possible? But no, surely they wouldn't do that, when this was a _school_ , and the purpose was _education_ , not exacerbating House divisions.

Well, whatever the reason, it was inconvenient, but he'd just have to make do.

There were only four Hufflepuffs he recognized: the eager, stout, blond-haired Ernie Macmillan; the 'descendant of Helga Hufflepuff' Zacharias Smith; the frightened-looking Oliver Rivers, who looked just as scared as he'd been at the sorting; and the blonde pigtailed Hannah Abbott. Of them, Ernie seemed the most amiable; the boy smiled at Harry as he entered the dungeons, and pulled his two companions, a boy with curly brown hair and Hannah, towards Harry.

"Potter! Can we sit here?" He gestured to the seat besides Harry, and the table behind.

"Of course," Harry said. Then, to the other two, "I'm Harry Potter. And you are?"

"Hannah Abbott," said said girl, smiling nervously.

"I'm Justin Finch-Fletchley," the curly-haired boy said. Harry took the offered hand. "Pleasure to meet you, Har- Potter."

"Call me Harry."

"Then you can call me Ernie," Ernie said eagerly.

"Justin." The Hufflepuff looked relieved at Harry's offer.

"Hannah."

"So… Potions. I must say, I've heard a lot about this class," Ernie said. "Professor Snape…" he lowered his voice, as though telling a secret. "They say he favors Slytherins."

"Good thing there are none in this class, then," said Justin cheerfully, obviously not understanding Ernie's concern.

"No, I've heard that too," Hannah told them worriedly. "They say that he's really strict, and that he's got really high standards. As in, maybe only two students per year get O's."

"O's?" Justin asked. So he was a Muggle-born, or at least, Muggle-raised.

"Outstandings," Harry answered. "The highest grade, at Hogwarts, followed by Exceeds Expectations, Acceptable, Poor, Dreadful, and Troll."

Justin began laughing, but stopped once he realized none of the others were joining him. " _Troll_?" he asked incredulously. " _That's_ a grade?"

Ernie nodded, then sighed. "And my parents would _kill_ me if I got a T - or any fail grade, for that matter… and they say Snape doesn't give out passes easily."

"Oh," Justin said. "That sounds… lovely." Hannah laughed, though the sound was more of anxiety than of happiness, while Harry contemplated the new information, and what it meant with the strange pain from his scar when he'd met Snape's eyes.

It felt too stereotypical to be true, that the sinister, dislikeable professor would have something to do with the Dark wizard who'd killed Harry's parents… but stereotypes _did_ have some basis in facts, he supposed.

"I mean, at least we're not Gryffindors?" Ernie pointed out, attempting to soothe the others' nerves. "They say he's harder on Gryffindors than any other House…"

With a bang, the door to the dungeons opened, and the dark-haired Potions professor glided in, his black cloak billowing behind him. The room grew quiet - not the gradual silence that had come from Sprout or Flitwick's appearance, but an abrupt quiet that made it clear Snape wasn't a professor to be underestimated.

He didn't speak, as he reached the front of the room, and, somewhat menacingly, picked up a scroll, to begin roll call.

Harry felt as though he was watching a comedic horror movie - one that was too obvious to be taken seriously.

There was a pause, after a pretty brunette squeaked a quiet, "Here," to the name Sally-Anne Perks, and Snape's cold black eyes fell on Harry, who met them, somewhat eagerly.

Nothing happened, outside of Snape's looking away a moment later.

"Ah, yes," the professor said softly. "Harry Potter. Our new - _celebrity_."

Harry wondered what he could have done to make Snape hate him so.

"Here, sir," Harry answered, his voice not loud, but not frightened, either, as the students' before him had so obviously been. Snape glanced at him a moment more, not meeting his gaze, before he moved to the remainder of the names.

"You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making," the professor began in the same quiet tone, once the roll call was finished. "As there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic. I don't expect you will really understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses… I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even stopper death - if you aren't as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach."

'To bottle fame'... was that Felix Felicis, liquid luck, in making the drinker lucky, and thus, famous? Or was Snape speaking more in metaphorical terms, in that potion inventors could become famous? The same applied to 'brew glory', but 'stopper death' seemed obvious - they would, eventually, learn to brew lethal poisons.

Though that didn't seem too student-friendly.

Harry realized that the class and Snape were starting at him, as though waiting for an answer, the look on Snape's face slightly triumphant. He reviewed the Potions professor's last statement in his mind: adding the powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood.

Well, that was easy.

"The Draught of Living Death, sir, though a sloth brain and Sopophorus bean juice would also be necessary, as well as Valerian root, possibly, to counteract any poisonous effecta of an excess of wormwood."

Snape blinked slowly at Harry, while the rest of the class gaped - though, really, the basic combination of asphodel and wormwood was a part of _One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi_ , and he'd simply been curious about a potion named 'The Draught of Living Death', which accounted for the additional information. And wasn't half the class Ravenclaw?

"And where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?"

"An Apothecary," Harry answered promptly, "the drawer in the ingredients cabinet labeled 'Bezoars', or the stomach of any cud-chewing animal. Though, for antidotal usage, I would specify to the stomach of a goat."

Snape turned his glare from said drawer back to Harry, his expression turning into an ugly snarl. "Thinking of thievery, _Potter_?" he said softly. Without waiting for a response, he continued. "Well, then, what is the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?"

"They're the same plant," Harry said, "also known as aconite, leopard's bane, mousebane, women's bane, devil's helmet, queen of poisons, and... one other." Which, for the life of him, he couldn't remember.

"Blue rocket," Snape finished quietly, his gaze still on Harry, yet still refusing to meet Harry's. He muttered something inaudible, before his attention snapped to the rest of the class. "Well? Why aren't you all copying that down?"

There was a sudden shuffle for quills and parchment, though Harry didn't move. Snape's behavior was... peculiar, to say the least. He obviously hated teaching the class - though not the subject itself? - which brought up the question of why he was here. And weren't teachers supposed to be approachable, to their students? But that wasn't so, if Ernie and Hannah's earlier comments were to be believed.

They quickly began on the practical portion of the lesson, brewing a cure for boils, after a short lecture from the Potions professor on the topic. Ernie was a decent partner, who obviously knew what he was doing, when Snape wasn't breathing down their backs. He struck up a murmured conversation with Harry, as they brewed, though he cut off quickly whenever Snape was in earshot.

"Merlin, P- Harry. How'd you know all those facts?"

"They were in the textbooks," Harry answered with a modest shrug.

Ernie shook his head. "No- I mean, yes, technically, but all those other facts. The Valerian root, the other names for wolfsbane, that lot. _That_ wasn't in the textbooks - not the first year ones, at least."

"I suppose I did a little extra reading," Harry allowed. "Just various topics, from the books I got, plus some reading in the library, these past few days." And they'd covered aconite, along with many other plants, during a specialized survival course at CHERUB.

Ernie looked skeptical, but let the matter drop. "Er... How've the rest of your classes been?"

"Same yours, no doubt," Harry said drily, prompting a laugh - and sudden focus on their potion, with Snape's attention drawn - from Ernie.

Once he deemed it safe, Ernie continued: "I suppose that's true - are there any classes you've found especially interesting, though?"

"I had liked the idea of Defense, before Quirrell," Harry said. Though it _was_ curious that they had someone as timid as Quirrell teaching a class to defend against Dark magic. "Outside of that, not particularly. Though I find learning in general to be useful. You?"

"Oh, I've found Charms to be quite fascinating. And Transfiguration - though I've heard that it will be a while before we'll be doing anything actually interesting-"

Snape had, again, drawn near their workstation. The professor sneered at their simmering cauldron but, after a moment, obviously seeing nothing to critique, moved away again to watch some of the other students' work.

"How are your housemates?" Harry asked, once Snape began berating two Hufflepuff girls for the slight smoke coming from their cauldron. "Do you know them all?"

Ernie's chest puffed up, proud. "Yes," he said. "You know Justin and Hannah, and that's Zacharias Smith, and Roger Malone besides him. Oliver Rivers and Wayne Hopkins are in the corner there, that's Sally-Anne Perks and Megan Jones-" he winced "-by Snape, and Susan Bones next to that Ravenclaw-"

"Padma Patil," Harry filled in. The Indian twin, amusingly, had her hair done in a version of Morag's hairdo, from the first day, but was still more interested in examining Morag's newest hairstyle, than paying attention to her potion.

Anyway, Ernie's knowledge wasn't too useful, considering that Harry _had_ been paying attention to Snape's roll call. And it didn't seem like Ernie would be too good a source of information of these students' personalities…

"You know all the Ravenclaws?"

Harry nodded, then named them, just as they finished the final five clockwise stirs for their potion. Ernie eyed their potion, which looked exactly the shade of blue as the textbook described, and emitted the correct pink smoke, relievedly, as his gaze flickered to the other, slightly less successful, potions around the room.

When they brought a vial of their potion to the front of the room, at the end of class, Snape sneered at Harry again, his eyes narrowed, but didn't say anything. Their eyes met again, for the briefest of moments, but again, Harry felt no pain in his scar.

So… what _had_ that strange pain been, at the feast?

-oOo-

_6 September 1991  
_ _Great Hall  
_ _0800 Hours_

Harry watched as the beautiful snowy owl Hagrid had gifted him for his birthday - and who he'd named Hedwig, after the patron saint of orphans, following Eliza's suggestion - soared into the Great Hall along with the about a hundred other owls, carrying with her a package, for the first time. He fed her a few owl treats as he slit open the envelope, noting the unfamiliar, messy handwriting.

_Dear Harry,_

_Would you like to come have a cup of tea with me, after your afternoon lessons? I want to hear all about your first week. Send us a letter back with Hedwig._

_Hagrid_

Briefly wondering who 'we' was, Harry took out a small piece of parchment and a quill, and answered:

_Dear Hagrid,_

_I would love to. My last class ends at 1645, so I'll see you at 1700?_

He hesitated, before adding:

_Additionally, would you mind if a couple of my classmates came, as well?_

_Sincerely, Harry_

Just in case Hermione, or one of the others, wanted to come.

"Was that Hagrid, the gamekeeper?" a voice besides him asked eagerly, as he sent the letter off with Hedwig. Lisa Turpin.

"Lisa!" Morag - always nearby - scolded. "It's not polite to read others' mail! It might even be illegal!"

"Only to open correspondence not addressed to yourself," Harry corrected mildly, "though I would agree to the impolite portion. It's fine, though; I'd just ask for you to refrain from doing the same in the future." Though if it was truly secret correspondence, Harry wouldn't have let her read over his shoulder, in the first place. "And, yes, it was Hagrid."

Lisa stuck her tongue out at Morag, then tried to speak to Harry, her tongue still out, prompting an eye roll from the other girl. "Can we come?"

"Lisa!"

"Oh, c'mon, Morag! Mum says that Hagrid's really into magical creatures, too! Said he goes into the Forbidden Forest a lot, and keeps a bunch of creatures in his hut! Wouldn't you want to see?"

Hagrid was interested in magical creatures, was he?

"I _would_ , but it's _Potter's_ invitation…"

"You can call me Harry," Harry said, "and I'd be delighted if you accompanied me. Both of you."

Lisa beamed at him, while Morag sighed, though the excitement evident on her face mitigated the action.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you!" Lisa exclaimed. "And call me Lisa!"

"You can call me Morag," said Morag. "And… thanks."

"But of course."

Moreover, having Lisa and Morag there would, no doubt, steer the conversation towards magical creatures, and potentially, to the three-headed dog.


	8. Secrets Uncovered

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter that's already been written, so more updates will come... sporadically... 
> 
> Also, if anyone's interested in reading more of my writing, I have a lot of one-shots posted on ff.net under the same pen name. 
> 
> And lastly, thanks to everyone who's read, kudos'ed, bookmarked, and commented! 

**Disclaimer: Harry Potter, CHERUB, and associated universes belong to J.K. Rowling and Robert Muchamore, respectively, and not me.**

* * *

**Chapter 7: Secrets Uncovered**

_6 September 1991  
_ _Hagrid's Hut  
_ _1700 Hours_

Hagrid blinked at the crowd assembled outside his hut, and Harry wondered if there would be space for them all inside. They numbered sixteen strong: Morag and Lisa, from breakfast; Hermione, who'd just seemed relieved that he hadn't abandoned her; Neville, who he'd extended the invitation to; Ron, Seamus, and Dean, who'd been there when he'd invited Hermione and Neville and who'd wanted to come along; Ernie, who'd followed him after Potions; Hannah and Justin, who'd come along with Ernie; Zacharias Smith and Roger Malone, who'd invited themselves, also after Potions; Susan Bones, who he'd invited because there was a 'Madam Bones' as head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, apparently; and Daphne Greengrass and Tracey Davis, who'd appeared as they'd walked across the grounds to Hagrid's hut. He wasn't entirely sure how the last two had learned about their meeting, since he hadn't shared any classes with them throughout the day. Perhaps they'd overheard from one of the Gryffindors?

"Hello, Hagrid, it's nice to see you again," Harry said. "I hope we're not too many?"

Hagrid blinked at them for a few moments more, before shaking his head as though to clear his thoughts. "O' course not! Come in, come in, make yerselves at home!"

They filed in - and _did_ fit, though it was a tight squeeze, one that Zacharias complained loudly about. As Harry passed Hagrid, he murmured, "I _am_ terribly sorry, but they all insisted on coming..."

Hagrid shook his head quickly. "No, no, yer all welcome, o' course! 'specially yeh, Harry, but I won't say no ter a couple o' yer friends." Well, they were a bit more than a 'couple', but as long as Hagrid was fine with it… The groundskeeper glanced around the hut, then added in a louder voice, "How 'bout a cup o' tea fer all o' you? That'd be one, two, three-"

Zacharias and Daphne declined the tea, but the others all accepted, with varying degrees of enthusiasm, and before long, Morag and Lisa had drawn Hagrid into a discussion on the unicorns of the Forbidden Forest, while Ron, Seamus, Dean, Ernie, Hannah, and Justin talked about teachers and classes, Zacharias and Roger had their own discussion, and the others watched quietly.

"How were your classes today, Neville, Hermione?" Harry asked the two Gryffindors. Neville seemed somehow more scared than he'd been earlier in the week, while Hermione simply looked upset. "You had…?"

"Double Potions and History," Hermione answered in a huff. "Professor Snape asked Ronald and Neville questions, and didn't let me answer when I raised my hand! And then he took more points when-" she shot Neville a sympathetic glance "-Neville's cauldron melted down, and he had to go to the Hospital Wing."

"Are you alright?" Harry hadn't noticed any lingering injuries, but he hadn't been paying too close attention either...

"'m fine," Neville mumbled, his eyes on the ground.

"Good," Harry said, smiling at Neville as the other boy looked up at the force in his tone. "I'm glad, Neville. And, Hermione, I know you could've answered all three ques-"

"Two," she corrected.

Harry frowned. "Two?"

Hermione nodded, her bushy hair bouncing with the rapid motion. "He asked Ronald what a bezoar was, and Neville about the difference between wolfsbane and monkshood."

Interesting, both that Snape had asked two different students - both Gryffindors - the questions, and that he hadn't asked about the Draught of Living Death, and coupled with his strange hatred of Harry…

"What was your third question?" Of course, Hermione would be curious.

"'What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood,'" Harry quoted.

"The Draught of Living Death," Hermione answered immediately. "But why would he… I'm going to the library." She stood abruptly, then paused, glancing self-consciously at the rest of the room. "Er…"

A piercing scream made them all flinch, their taxes turning to the back of the room, Harry's hand going automatically to his concealed gun, because _if anyone was in danger he'd_ \- but there was no apparent threat, only Lisa and Morag huddled over something in the back corner, Hagrid glancing at them, concerned, but smiling.

What-?

It had been Lisa who'd screamed, and as Harry listened closer, he realized that perhaps 'squealed' would have been a better word to describe the sound.

"Oh my Merlin! Oh my Merlin! He's so cute! Who's a good doggy? Who's a good doggy? _You're_ a good doggy! What's his name, Hagrid?"

"That's Fang," Hagrid said happily. "Bit o' a coward, really - he's jus' a big baby."

"C'mere, Fang! Fang-y, Fang-y-"

"Lisa, you're scaring him!" Morag scolded. She made a clicking sound with her tongue, turning to the dog, then clapped a few times. "Here, Fang, here, Fang. Come here." She clicked a few times more, and, slowly, something emerged out of the alcove. A large, black, boarhound, who whimpered and shrunk back slightly at the sight of all of them. "Shh, shh, it's fine Fang. Come here. Shh, shh... _Lisa_."

Lisa clapped a hand over her mouth, though the squeals were still audible as she bounced on the balls of her feet. Another glare by Morag had her taking several long, dramatic breaths, before she took her hand off and asked, slightly quieter, "Can I pet him? Can I, can I, please?"

Morag turned to Hagrid. "Hagrid?"

"Oh, o' course! Jus' try not ter scare him too much... Yeh've got a real way with animals - er, what'd yeh say yer name was?"

"Morag. And thanks. Both Lisa and I are fascinated, by all sorts of magical beasts."

"Especially dogs!" Lisa added, her high-pitched tone causing Fang to shrink back a bit again. "Aw, no, c'mere Fang-y! I won't hurt you!"

"Yeh like Fang, yeh should see Fluffy!" Hagrid said, laughing. "He's a three-headed dog, see..."

Harry barely kept from whipping around to look at Hagrid incredulously. That dog was _his_?

"That sounds so cool! Y'know, Morag and I were just talking about three-headed dogs, the other day, and there was something... what was it, Morag?"

Would this first puzzle _really_ be so simple?

"Greek mythology?" Morag suggested.

"No... something neither of us could remember... Right! It was-"

"-weaknesses," Morag finished, snapping her fingers. "Right. Because they're such great guard dogs, with so many strengths, but-"

"Oh, it's easy ter get pas' Fluffy," Hagrid said, waving a hand dismissively. "All yeh need ter do is play him a bit o' mus- oh!" Suddenly, Hagrid seemed to remember where he was, glancing around at the gathered students, a look of horror in his eyes. "Oh, I shouldn'ta-" He clamped his mouth shut again, the look in his eyes growing more and more panicked. "I- er- How 'bout some rock cakes, fer everyone? Baked 'em all meself!"

Hagrid really was horrible at keeping secrets, wasn't he? And Harry could tell, glancing around the room, that many of the others hadn't missed his slip, and obvious attempts to conceal that mistake. Which only proved Harry's theory, because had there been something truly worth hiding, in that third-floor corridor, surely they would have decided to _not_ keep that secret with Hagrid.

So... music. The three-headed dog - _Fluffy_ \- would be put to sleep by music, like any human toddler. It seemed strangely anti-climatic... but it made sense. Of course they wouldn't _actually_ have the students battle a three-headed dog.

The only problem was, Harry wasn't particularly gifted at music. What sort of music needed to be played, anyway - what counter as music? If an utterly tone-deaf student sang a collection of notes, would Fluffy still fall asleep? Did the tune have to be a lullaby, a soothing song? Was a single melody enough, or did a full orchestra have to play?

The latter seemed unlikely.

But Harry _couldn't_ sing, nor play a music instrument, and he didn't want to risk- oh. Right. Magic.

There would _obviously_ be spells to play music for you, right? And if there weren't, he could always focus his magic to make music for him.

-oOo-

_7 September 1991  
_ _Hogwarts Library  
_ _0945 Hours_

"Harry! There you are - I've been searching all over for you!"

"Hermione," Harry greeted, smiling. "It's good to see you too." He paused expectantly, and, as expected, she jumped in excitedly.

"'I bitterly regret Lily's death!'" she said, then paused, obviously waiting for a reaction.

It took Harry a moment to place the name. Lily... McGonagall! _'He'd gone to Godric's Hallow, to kill your parents, Lily and James Potter'_ \- that was his mother! But then-

"Snape's question, that's what it means, in Victorian flower language! He-"

"-bitterly regrets Lily's death - my mother's death," Harry finished, and Hermione beamed.

But... why? Had they been friends? Snape was fairly young, for a teacher - had they been classmates? Why was it _only_ Lily's death? Because Snape hadn't found something to represent Harry's father, James? Because Snape didn't regret James's death? But then, why would he hate Harry? _Especially_ if he regretted Lily's death?

Hermione was watching him expectantly, but after several moments, sighed. "I guess you don't know any more about that?" she asked.

"No," Harry agreed. "Unless... Do you know anything about Snape? His past, what he did before becoming a teacher, and whatnot?"

She shook her head, biting her lip. "But I can ask around? I bet some of the other Gryffindors… and Percy Weasley - Ronald's brother - said something about him and the Dark Arts during the feast…"

Harry nodded thoughtfully. "Thank you, though, for searching this up, and for telling me. I had no idea…"

"Of course," Hermione smiled at him. "I'll see you later then!"

Less than five minutes later, though, another set of approaching footsteps had him looking up from his book again, to see Draco Malfoy, for once unaccompanied by Vincent and Gregory, or any other Slytherins.

"Potter," Draco said, his expression the same neutrality that he'd shown during all the other classes they'd had together.

"Malfoy." Harry had mourned a lost relationship, when Draco had made no moves to approach him since that first Herbology class, but perhaps… if there was a certain appearance Draco had to put up around others… "Can I help you?"

Draco examined him for a moment longer, before he sat down in the chair across from Harry, and spoke. "What you said, before. About M-Muggle-borns. You don't really believe that, do you?"

"I do," Harry said quietly. This _again_? "I have plans, you see, and I won't pass over three-quarters of the population - Muggle-borns, half-bloods, and others who support Muggle and Muggle-born rights," he added, seeing Draco about to interrupt, "due to differences in ideology. To me, that's simply irrational."

Slowly, Draco nodded. "You said you have plans. What would those be?"

Harry smiled. "I'm going to change this world, Malfoy. And not just by surviving the Killing Curse and causing the disappearance of a Dark Lord as a baby."

Draco looked unimpressed by his declaration. "And what, _specifically_ , are you planning on doing?"

How much to tell him? "My former guardians were involved in intelligence for their government, but there seems to be an absence of such an institution, here. Especially given our recent political history, I believe that it would be prudent to address that lack."

"...Intelligence?" Honestly, did _no one_ in the wizarding world know what that was?

"Espionage. Spy work."

Draco's gaze snapped to his own, grey eyes wide. Harry smiled, then raised an eyebrow, his unspoken question obvious. What would Draco do with this information?

He really needed to look into secrecy contracts and vows.

"…Call me Draco," the other boy said, after another long pause. It wasn't a declaration of support or alliance, by any means, but it was a start.

"Then you can call me Harry."

-oOo-

_7 September 1991  
_ _CHERUB Headquarters  
_ _1930 Hours_

Suriyawong puzzled at the letter in his hands, written in dark green ink on strangely-textured parchment. It was from Harry, a seemingly simple request, but for the life of him, Suriyawong couldn't imagine why his friend would want a music box, when he went to a school of _magic_.

Couldn't Harry just wave his wand and make music?

And placing the package by CHERUB's outgoing mailbox, with only a note on top bearing Harry's name… How was that supposed to get to Harry? Sure, there was magic, but _Suriyawong_ couldn't do any, and unless the package was in contact with something magical, which wouldn't happen because that wasn't part of the instructions...

Or maybe he was overthinking everything, something that, to his shock and horror, was happening more and more. Because he didn't _want_ to suddenly become an angsty teenager. He didn't _want_ to suddenly have to worry about girls and teenage things.

After all, his brother had changed, become like that, moody and rebellious, just before he'd disappeared.

Either way, he didn't _need_ to overhink Harry's request. He had no idea how magic worked, after all, and he would never be part of that world.

-oOo-

_10 September 1991  
_ _Third-Floor Corridor  
_ _0730 Hours_

A quick _Alohomora_ \- because Harry had learned from last time and found the spell in his Charms textbook ahead of time, and because he'd found using magic with his wand and with the correct incantation to take a lot less energy than focusing his magic to complete tasks - opened the door to the third-floor corridor on the right-hand side, and a release of the wind-up key of Suriyawong's music box began the quiet music, filling the room. Harry kept his gaze on the three-headed dog, just in case, but his caution was unnecessary; all six of Fluffy's eyelids drifted closed quickly, the three heads falling to the floor with a thud.

Harry stepped forward, the music box still playing, but something about the scene… His eyes flickered across the room, trying to spot what his instincts were shouting at him: that there was someone else in the room, someone watching him.

Someone _invisible_?

"Back again, Harry?"

His eyes flashed towards the sound, and there, though he would've sworn that he hadn't been there a moment ago, was the headmaster, Albus Dumbledore, dressed in such vibrant shades of violet and cyan Harry wondered for a moment if he was _trying_ to be seen. But if he could spell himself to be invisible, Harry supposed it wouldn't matter too much…

"Professor Dumbledore," he said. Why was the man here? He'd called him Harry - was it common for him to know a student's name? But then again, Harry _was_ famous, so perhaps for him... And he'd said 'back _again_ ' - so he knew that Harry had come before? Were there detection spells, recording spells, set to the room?

Actually, that would make sense, given that this _was_ a competition.

Dumbledore's gaze, his blue eyes shining brightly, almost _twinkling_ , behind his half-circle spectacles, held his steadily, and for a moment, Harry thought the wizard was reading his mind. But he dismissed the thought. Eyes were windows to the soul, or so they said, but nothing more.

Unless... Magic?

His heart dropped suddenly. _Was_ it possible to read minds, with magic?

Just to be safe, Harry pulled his gaze away, dropping it to Fluffy, who was snoring loudly, now. He watched, out of the corner of his eye, as Dumbledore seemed to study him, waiting for the headmaster to speak.

The music box's melody ended. Harry quickly turned the key again, and the song began again.

"Was there something you wanted, sir?"

Dumbledore seemed to snap out of whatever daze he'd been in, and he smiled benignly at Harry, before speaking. "Oh, not really, my boy. I simply wanted to warn you that, should you proceed beyond this obstacle, it would likely take you more time than you currently have, to return. And I'm sure you wouldn't want to be late to your first class."

Something about Dumbledore's words struck Harry as... off, but what he had said made sense. If the obstacles took more than the hour he had before classes... Perhaps coming back later, during the evening, would be better?

"I hadn't thought of that, sir," Harry admitted, "but I'll take that under advisement. Thank you."

Dumbledore's eyes seemed to brighten, as Harry moved to leave, almost as though this was exactly what he wanted, to delay Harry, and have him return at a later time. But why would that be? Unless Dumbledore didn't think that Harry could make his way past the obstacles, unless he thought Harry might be in _danger_ passing through, surely he would prefer if the obstacles were solved as quickly as possible. At the very least, that would show greater proficiency, wouldn't it?

"Oh, and Harry, my boy?"

And what was it with that familiarity, that phrase, 'my boy'? He certainly wasn't Dumbledore's _son_ \- they barely knew each other!

"Yes, sir?"

"Could you come to my office, this evening at seven, perhaps? There's something I'd like to discuss with you."

Harry nodded. "If you wish, sir."

Dumbledore smiled happily. "Wonderful! You do know where my office is? It's just downstairs, on the second floor, guarded by a delightful griffin gargoyle. The password is 'Jelly Slugs'."

Harry nodded again.

After another long moment, he exited, walking swiftly out of the corridor and back towards the grounds, all the while puzzling over the interaction. The headmaster wanted to see him? _Why_?

He didn't _know_ anything, did he?

-oOo-

_10 September 1991  
_ _Training Grounds  
_ _1520 Hours_

Harry wasn't sure quite what to think about flying.

Perhaps he'd have a different opinion once he'd actually flown, but it felt like such a cumbersome and time-consuming method of transportation, when there was also Apparation, the Floo, Portkeys, and various other instantaneous methods of transportation.

For that matter, why did students travel to Hogwarts by _train_? It wasted practically the entire _day_ on transport, and he couldn't imagine why…

Anyway. He'd read that wizards used brooms for long-distance travel, but sitting on a broom for such travel didn't seem too comfortable, even with Cushioning Charms in place, not to mention that long-distance Portkeys did exist. And flying on broomsticks was, unless Disillusionment Charms were used, a lot more visible than other forms of transportation, thus more likely to break the International Statute of Secrecy.

But then again, by that logic, there would be no point in Muggles traveling by bicycle, because cars were so much faster. Was congestion a problem wizards faced, perhaps not while Apparating, but in the Floo Network or using Portkeys?

And there was Quidditch. So perhaps the main usage of brooms was for recreational purposes, and not for actual transport.

Regardless, having an actual class on broomstick flying seemed almost like a waste of time, like having a Muggle class dedicated to teaching students to ride a bike. Perhaps in a fitness class, though there wasn't much physical fitness involved in sitting on a broom, but still, more of something a student learned on their own time, or with the help of their parents, than something to spend time on at school.

Although then, he supposed the Muggle-raised students might never have the opportunity to learn to fly, and given that Quidditch was the only organized sport at Hogwarts, that wasn't exactly equitable…

Not that any of that really mattered, because Flying _was_ a class - another one they shared with the Hufflepuffs, interestingly enough - which meant that they _would_ be spending their time learning it, and there was nothing Harry could do about that. Yet.

A group of Hufflepuffs arrived, and Harry noted in interest as Susan Bones spotted him and, somewhat self-consciously, approached.

"Hello, Bones," Harry greeted.

"You can call me Susan," the girl said quickly, "if I can call you Harry?"

"But of course."

She smiled. "Great. And thanks for inviting me, on Friday, I don't think I ever thanked you-"

"Think nothing of it," Harry replied dismissively. "I do apologize, though, that so many others came, as well…"

Susan shrugged. "I didn't mind. So what do you think about flying? Have you flown before?"

Funny, that.

Harry shook his head. "Have you?"

"A few times, though I'm no Quidditch star. My Aunt Amelia taught me - says it's a good way to get out of a tight situation, if you can't Apparate."

An interesting point. Harry supposed that _was_ true, though it would require actually having a broom with you… "She thought you might be in such a situation?"

Susan laughed softly. "Oh, not really, but she's in the DMLE, so 'better safe than sorry'."

"What does she do?"

"Officially? She presides over the Wizengamot and oversees DMLE activities, like monitoring activities, leading and training staff, and making sure daily operations run smoothly. Unofficially?" She laughed again. "Auntie says it's a bunch of paperwork and people-pleasing. She says things were a lot more interesting, back when she was an Auror, but that, as Head, she can make more of a difference."

"Oh?"

Susan nodded excitedly. "She became Head after Crouch, who, of course, lead the push for the Death Eater Laws, the ones that authorized use of the Unforgiveables and sentenced to Azkaban without a trial, so she had to undo all of _that_ , and she says that loads of laws in the DMLE are super outdated, some of them even from when the Ministry was founded! Plus, there's a lot of bias and politics and bureaucracy in the Department, and she says that _that_ shouldn't exist, because the law enforcement should be neutral and unbiased, uninfluenced by public opinion."

In theory, Harry agreed with that, but in practice, he doubted that that would ever happen, because the law enforcement, magical or Muggle, was made of people, and people could never be truly unbiased. And all _public_ actions taken by a government _would_ be subject to public opinion, which was why governments couldn't be completely transparent.

So Amelia Bones sounded idealistic, but also honest and committed to ensuring that the DMLE actually did its job, more than looking good or advancing in the Ministry. Harry could work with that.

"Would you want to be a part of that, too, when you grew up?"

Susan opened her mouth to reply, but closed it again quickly; their teacher, Madam Hooch, a witch with short grey hair and strangely yellow, hawk-like eyes, had arrived.

"Well, what are you all waiting for?" she barked as the class watched her. "Everyone stand by a broomstick. Come on, hurry up."

They learned to summon their brooms, first - and Harry wondered whether you had to be magical for the word 'up' to cause a broomstick to fly into your hand - before they moved on to proper grip, then to liftoff and landing. For whatever reason, the lessons seemed to come ridiculously easily to Harry - only a single try was needed for him to master what took many of the others, outside of those who'd obviously been on a broom before, the entire class. When Hooch set a group of them to practice ' _slow_ laps, as in, no faster than walking speed, and certainly not speed-walking or running or as-fast-as-these-brooms-can-go speed', Harry found himself as part of that group.

And that was when he found, well. That flying was _brilliant_. Absolutely _brilliant_.

It was the cart ride through Gringotts again, the first encounter with Fluffy again, the thrill of Harry's CHERUB missions and basic training and exercises again. His earlier deliberations on the benefits of flying, he realized now, were so naïve and _impossible_ , he realized now. Flying wasn't for practicality, it was for entertainment, the equivalent of a Muggle amusement park, a roller coaster, a skydiving center.

He realized, too late, that he was flying much faster than 'walking speed'.

Hooch's lips were pursed, and her expression uncannily similar to that of much of the CHERUB staff whenever Suriyawong pulled one of his infamous pranks - a mixture of amusement, exasperation, and annoyance - when Harry landed. "Ten points from Ravenclaw, Mr. Potter - you could've seriously injured yourself if you crashed." And, beneath her breath, Harry thought he heard the teacher say, "Just like his father. A natural."

Interesting. So flying skills were hereditary?

-oOo-

_10 September 1991_  
_Potions Classroom  
_ _1530 Hours_

Severus glared at the backs of the students' heads as he glided slowly around the classroom, internally smirking as Neville Longbottom gave a quiet whimper and dropped something on the table - though thankfully, or was it disappointingly? not in his cauldron - as he passed by. Though he _never_ would have thought he'd feel that way... he half wished it was the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff first years who had Potions today, if only because that was the class Harry Potter was in.

Harry Potter. He'd expected the boy to be just like his father - arrogant, hot-tempered, and obnoxious, an obvious Gryffindor, someone spoiled and self-important, _especially_ given his fame. He'd prepared himself to see all traces of Lily's gentle, almost naïvely optimistic, loyal, intuitive, fiercely brave nature erased and overridden, to see her son a swaggering bully like his father.

But then, Potter had been sorted into _Ravenclaw_ , of all Houses. But then, Severus had had Potter in class. But then, Potter had answered each of his questions correctly, even providing further information Severus hadn't asked for (like Lily would've), and demonstrating his understanding of the ingredients of the NEWT-level potion Severus had asked about. But then, Potter had proceeded to brew a perfect cure for boils (just like Lily had, their first Potions lesson). But then, Potter had met his gaze, and, for a moment, Severus had seen Lily again.

Not to mention what Albus had urgently summoned him for, just before his first class, in the morning. Severus wanted simultaneously to laugh and shout in the man's face - _Albus_ was the one who'd insisted they delay on creating the obstacles to the Philosopher's Stone, to test Potter (and he wasn't even going to _think_ about the tangent _that_ fact led to) and now, Albus wanted them created as quickly as possible? Well, though the headmaster hadn't said so alright, Severus knew that there was only one reason why he'd sped up the timeline so.

Potter had been investigating that third-floor corridor, and had _already_ gotten past Hagrid's three-headed dog.

Severus refused to think about the fact that _he_ still had no idea of how to get past the mutt.

And, as much as Severus wanted to believe his first reaction to that fact, that _obviously_ , that meant that Potter was just like his father, foolishly bold, jumping into things without thinking everything through… he couldn't help but the slight tinges of doubt. Was it a Gryffindor's recklessness that compelled him? Or a Ravenclaw's curiosity, to know what lay in that corridor? Or a Hufflepuff's, albeit misguided, protectiveness, to seek out the danger in the school? Or even a Slytherin's self-preservation, to know everything that went on around Hogwarts, especially possible threats?

And, perhaps more telling, if he was in Potter's place, would he have sought out that corridor?

It unnerved Severus that he wasn't sure whether his answer was 'no'. He had learned long ago that the safety came in predictability, and that surprises were _never_ a good thing. And though he doubted that Potter had had a childhood anything like his, it only went to show that actions could be taken for a variety of different purposes.

Yet another reason why Albus's warning to stay away from that corridor had been futile at best, and completely counterproductive at worst. Sure, Albus's _goal_ had been to attract Potter's attention to that corridor, but Potter was hardly the only student at the school, and it would be impossible to understand what went through all those students' heads.

If there _was_ anything in their heads, that was. Some days…

As though cued by his thoughts, Longbottom's cauldron exploded.

**Author's Note:**

> CHERUB is an organization of the British government that uses children ages 10-17 as spies; the idea is that no one expects children to be spies, so they can do things and go places adults can't. All CHERUB agents must be orphans, without anyone to look for them if they go missing. CHERUB agents go through basic training, a grueling 100-day course to prepare them for missions, once they reach age 10. The organization also has a shirts-system, with orange shirts for visitors, red shirts for kids who haven't passed basic training, blue shirts for trainees in basic training, grey shirts for qualified agents, navy shirts for outstanding performance on a mission, and black shirts for outstanding performance on multiple missions. And, regarding last names - CHERUB agents chose a new name, usually only a new last name, for themselves during their CHERUB careers, but also use alternate last names during missions. For example, Harry's chosen name is Hadrian Greyson, his real name is Harry Potter, and for the May 1991 mission, he was Harry Miller.


End file.
